


Burn the Ships

by Benedicthiddleston



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: AU post-season 2, Angst, Cancer diagnosis, Emotional Support, Found Family, Goofy Family, Hurt/Comfort, Ignore season 3, Life-threatening Illness, Team as Family, medical content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2019-11-14 22:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18061160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benedicthiddleston/pseuds/Benedicthiddleston
Summary: Diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, Angus MacGyver's entire world is flipped upside down. Mac is forced to learn what it means to not look back. He faces his own mortality in a very personal way, in ways that his career as a covert spy cannot prepare him for. He is not one to give up - but sometimes life just doesn't go the way we planned.





	1. Debrief

> Burn the ships, cut the ties Send a flare into the night Say a prayer, turn the tide Dry your tears and wave goodbye Step into a new day We can rise up from the dust and walk away We can dance upon our heartache, yeah So light a match, leave the past, burn the ships And don't you look back 

_(Burn the Ships by For King & Country)_

* * *

The mission, albeit somewhat messy and hazardous, still had the potential to be considered successful in the eyes of one Matilda Webber. Several prominent Ukrainian terrorists had been apprehended, and the improvised explosive device neutralized before it could harm innocent civilians, let alone trained covert government spies. In the minds of the Phoenix Foundation, once the Department of External Services, it was all in a day's work as an off-the-books United States spy agency.

Most days went by without a hitch. Covering as a Think Tank on the outskirts of Los Angeles, the Phoenix Foundation prided itself on maintaining pace with the technological world, proving to exceed the mantra _finding unusual solutions to unusual problems_.

Matilda, who asked everyone to call her Matty, held a most prestigious position at the Phoenix Foundation: Director. Director of – what, exactly? Was the question most often asked by individuals who were not aware of the secret part of her top position. Director of Operations, managing whatever the Think Tank was focused on at any given moment. Those who did know about the undercover nature understood that Matilda Webber had power – and a lot of it. She was Director of Field Operations. It meant she managed ten teams operating outside of the United States on deep undercover missions and two local teams. She intercepted calls from the Secretary of State and head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, knew the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency personally, and flirted with danger on the butt-end of nasty calls from the National Security Agency. To say she wasn’t a fierce lady would be an understatement. Matty Webber took her job seriously and to the fullest extent possible. She commanded the utmost respect, even with her small stature warring against her in a world of tall and gangly men. Today was no different from the last or even the next.

One local team had been deployed to Ukraine to reign in the terrorists and disarm the IED. The local team was comprised of an Army Sergeant gallivanting with a past in Delta Force, the CIA, and one of the best sniper records in the world, a talented rogue computer hacker with a checkered history, a film director wannabe turned spy, and a genius intellectual Army EOD Specialist with talent beyond his young features. Today the team was assembling in the War Room to debrief after the begrudgingly successful mission. Honestly, it should have failed miserably, and at least one of her agents should be _dead_ , but Matty would be a fool to say it out loud. Horses and hand grenades, or so Mr. Delta Force would gripe.

Matty stood at the front of the rectangular room with a severe look on her face. She gave each agent a glance-over as they filed one by one into the room. Ten days away from home could do a number on any individual or team, but when she saw the relaxed tone of her four agents, she knew they were the exception. And above all else, they had become her family – Sergeant Jack Wyatt Dalton, Riley Davis, Agent Wilt Bozer, and Specialist Angus Jackson MacGyver. She was glad they had returned home safe and sound after facing a multitude of obstacles that had threatened their very livelihood.

Wilt Bozer, most often going by the name of Bozer or Boze, collapsed into the seat furthest from but still facing where his boss stood, his face a mixture of exhaustion and relief. The trip home had allowed for fitful sleep at best – too much going through his mind to even try to rest for long periods. The team may have been successful in completing their assigned mission, but there had been setback after setback, not including the added emotional and physical pain. Bozer still sported a good-sized nob to his right temple from the butt of a rifle, even though the pain had long subsided, the concussion mild. The most significant pain, far more damaging to his psyche than his physical form, had been watching his best friend Mac allow himself to be taken hostage for twenty-six hours, thirty-five minutes, and thirty-six seconds. Dalton had been incessantly keeping track of the time. 

There had been limited communication during the entire fiasco, so when Mac was finally rescued, he'd been a little worse for wear. Oddly enough, no penetrating wounds, excessive bleeding, or even one scratch. Just bruise after bruise, many freshly sprouting on top of the ever-growing excess of old bruising. However, the end goal was quickly obtained after his rescue – the IED neutralized and the terrorists rounded up for a one-way ticket to prison.

Now they were back in the States, preparing for yet another debrief. It was all routine. Typical covert operations style. Dalton had gotten his right wrist examined and splinted before leaving Ukrainian airspace, Mac a slipped dose of pain medication, and Bozer got his own lollipop for being such a good patient in comparison to his comrades. No one came away from the mission with any lasting, damaging injuries, and everyone got to walk onto the plane under their own steam.

Tapping the glass window beside the only door leading into the War Room, Riley Davis activated the frosted glass at the beckoning of their fearless leader. The door slipped shut with a soft thud, the magnetic lock instantly catching. No one would disturb the group while they debriefed. Dropping her backpack on the ground, Riley settled into a relaxed upward posture against the far wall in the straight back of the room. She'd been sitting long enough in the past ten days, from the plane that carried them to the mission, the uncomfortable chair she’d been relegated to in the truck with Ukrainian Special Forces and other computer specialists while on the mission, and of course the plane ride back to Los Angeles after the mission. Arms folded over her chest, Riley focused her attention on Matty, waiting patiently.

A permanent scowl was transfixed on Jack Dalton’s face, his eyes sending daggers at whoever dared challenge him with even the simplest of glances. He took his usual place standing near the front of the room, hovering over the chair where his partner had parked his own exhausted body. Jack was tired, hungry, fighting numbness and tingling in his right hand, and in desperate need of a shower. More importantly, he was downright angry with how the mission had unfolded. They all knew the risks of the job, even expected danger at the best of times. But to listen to your partner argue about the plan and then blatantly defy orders (typical response) just to willingly walk into enemy hands to get a good look at the _plans_ for the explosive device they had been sent to recon and dismantle? Delta Dalton had come out in a matter of milliseconds, spouting off every curse word in the book, a few in recognizable and unrecognizable languages. Hell broke loose with communications at the most crucial of moments and by the time Jack had comms revived and Mac back in his line of sight, the sour mood got even acrider. The kid had just about gotten himself pummeled to pieces, and the IED had still been in play. It had taken another day to find the IED and finally disarm it for good. The lasting damage seemed to be a handprint-shaped bruise glared purple and red from Mac’s left wrist, the area too sensitive to wear his usual watch. Mac would never say such, not even to Jack, but Jack had a knack for reading Angus MacGyver. They had been by each other’s side for just over seven years. Jack could read Mac like an open book – for the most part.

The room was silent, waiting for the boss to open up discussion. She glanced back at her most prized agent and cleared her throat. “Welcome back, team. I would say good work,” Matty’s face morphing into exasperated disappointment, “but that was a messy clean-up if I ever saw one. Next time, don’t willingly walk into enemy hands, is that clear, Blondie?”

Before Mac could defend himself, Jack butted in with a gruffness to his voice. "I told him – _demanded him_ – not to do it!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Mac turned his head long enough to give Jack the ‘I’m not a child!’ face.

Matty sighed, already tired of the infighting. “You,” she pointed at Mac, eyes flashing with a warning, “were instructed to stand down and wait. We’ve also discussed on _numerous_ occasions that you don't get to improvise on the whim in situations like that. Because that wasn't improvising, that was dumb foolery, and you are fortunate to have walked away with only bruises. And Jack," she moved her finger to shake it at him, her eyes lasers, "don't think you're out of the doghouse. I have the transcripts of that conversation. You weren't obeying _my_ orders. And then you got hurt in the process. Don’t make me bench both of you!”

Jack huffed, lips thinning into an invisible line. He defiantly crossed his arms over the chest, frustration building. 

"We had to get the location of the IED,” Mac protested. “What did you _want_ me to do?”

Matty threw her hands up in defeat.

Bozer tried to mutter under his breath, but the whole room heard him. “Maybe not get so righteously banged up that Riley could probably identify the terrorist that left that handprint bruise on your wrist?”  

Mac’s face was the picture of indignation, left eyebrow raised while his brow knitted forward, eyes squinting in an almost comical question mark at Bozer’s remark. “There is no way –“

“ENOUGH!” Matty yelled, glaring at her blond genius. “It is not up for discussion on how Mac obtained the bruise or from _whom_. We have a debrief to complete." She turned her back to them, fingers stabbing into the large touchscreen at the front of the room. A file with the name _Ukrainian Special Forces_ popped up on the screen, her fingers working smoothly to find the correct document to open.

Mac sighed, running a hand through his hair. He needed a shower, and preferably a good long run up the hills near his home before that shower. It had been almost two weeks since his last long run, even though he was feeling a touch more tired than usual. The run would help work out the kinks in his muscles and the bone-deep ache. This hadn't been the first long op across seas. 

Except, maybe Bozer wasn’t wrong about the bruising – the handprint bruise could almost be traced back to its owner, it had been that tight of a squeeze. Plus the other numerous bruises littering Mac’s body that ached with movement, even occasionally at rest. If he didn’t know any better, he would look at himself and think he was hazard-prone. Maybe he was coming down with something, like the flu. His physical check-up from the physician in Ukraine had been fine – well, fine with what Mac had admitted to when asked. He felt okay physically, nothing hurt more than an ache. Why should anyone worry?

Turning his attention back to the now-pulled up document on the front screen, Mac absently ran a finger under his nose after feeling a slight tickle. He didn’t think anything of it as Matty started to question Riley about the computer side of the op. But his mind was abruptly distracted when the tickle got stronger after the fact, and something seemed to drip from his nostril. He reached up and wiped at his nose, his finger coming away from his face with a drop of blood. _What?_

Bozer, having a fair view of his best friend's face, expressions and all, was the first to notice the look of confusion on Mac's face. And the red drop on an index finger. Which quickly evolved into a stream of red coming from Mac's left nostril. He was up out of his chair instantaneously, concern and confusion written all over his own face.

“Mac, you feeling okay?”

Mac's frown deepened even further. "I – I don't know." He had never had a spontaneous nosebleed in his life. The key word was spontaneous. 

Twisting her small body at the hips to peer back at her agents, frustration apparent on her already-flustered face, Matty saw Bozer drop to his knees by Mac’s chair, a handkerchief appearing and pressing to Mac’s nose.

“Okay, what is going on?” She turned fully, back to the screen, hands planted firmly on her hips.

Riley had noticed the blood and pushed off from the wall, concern written on her face. It didn’t match the anxiety that overrode all anger on Jack’s face, his feet quickly stepping around the chair to face his partner. Worry had crawled into his brain when Bozer all but abandoned his chair.

The handkerchief seemed to soak through in a matter of seconds. Mac took over holding it against his nose, the taste of iron at the back of his tongue. When he pulled the cloth away after about a minute, Mac could tell his other nostril had started to spontaneously bleed, adding to the blood-soaked cloth. _Um, something is not right_.

“Nosebleed?!” Jack spoke incredulously. “You’ve never had a nosebleed!”

Matty’s eyes quickly took stock of the situation, irritation fading away to marked concern. She let her hands drop to her side, a sigh escaping her lips. “You should probably go to the infirmary.”

Riley had managed to find an old package of tissues in her backpack, fingers unwrapping the fine, soft paper and handing a couple to her brother. He shrugged at Matty while stuffing tissue up each nostril. "It's nothing, Matty. Just a nosebleed.”

Her finger immediately pointed to the door. “Infirmary, now.”

There was no way to avoid the wrath of Matty the Hun. If your boss told you to skedaddle to the infirmary to be seen by the in-house physician, then you got your ass in gear and _went_. And it was only because she was giving him a pointed stare that would have made a charging rhinoceros turn around and flee in terror. She let it bore into him for a few seconds, silently yelling at him to do what she said.

Sighing, Mac lifted his hands up in defeat, blood tinging a couple of his fingertips. “Okay, okay, you win. I’m going to the infirmary.” His voice was slightly muffled by the tissues, even as the white turned bright red.

The smirk was small but mighty. "Good, Blondie. We weren't getting anywhere with this debrief anyway, so once you've been patched up by Nurse Jackie, come back, and we'll start over." She turned slightly towards Jack, giving him her full attention. "Accompany him, so he doesn't stray out the front door."

Jack’s nodded without as much as a peep from his mouth, an arm reaching out to help Mac stand. It went almost unnoticed, but Jack saw the slight imbalance, the unsteadiness to the gait, as Mac got up under his own feet and took off out of the War Room under his own steam.

No one called him out on it if they noticed. Mac would be forever grateful for silent family.

Once Mac and Jack were gone, Matty turned her attention to Riley and Bozer, her face aging beyond her years. “Seeing as this debrief has been postponed, both of you may head to the lab. Jill requested both of your expertise in the lab. I’ll call you back when they’ve patched up Baby Einstein. Shouldn’t be too long.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a novel-length fanfic, however it won't be finished for quite some time. I'm a Master's student who has four long classes left to finish. Hoping by the end of Spring, maybe mid-Summer to get fully into finishing this baby. It's got 77k words so far, so it's got some kick already! If you stick around until the end, I promise you won't be disappointed!
> 
> I don't own anyone or anything that you recognize. This is a post-season 2 AU, where Mac did not run off to Nigeria and none of the events of season 3 have ever happened. It'll make more sense further down the road ☺️ Mac did quit, but for a short time. It may be explored, that hasn't been decided yet.
> 
> Many tagged characters will come and go over the course of the story. I have tagged the most prominent and pertinent individuals (may change as needed).
> 
> Kudos, comments, bookmarks, and subscriptions are all loved and appreciated!
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read the first chapter! Love, Danielle


	2. Infirmary

> Prepare for the worst  
>  Hope for the best  
>  Won't you steady my heart  
>  For whatever comes next? 

_(Need You More by For King & Country)_

* * *

 

The Phoenix Foundation doubled as a contemporary think-tank and a covert government agency that no one actually knew existed (except for the individual’s privy to knowledge of such an off-the-books agency). The office building looked like any other around it – five stories tall, glistening windows, and regular foot traffic. There was a parking garage to the east, while the grounds boasted a substantially-sized athletic yard to the south, complete with two tennis courts, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and miniature golf. Those who worked at the think-tank worked hard, but also _played_ hard.

When a visitor walked in the front doors, they were greeted by a sprawling front entryway, complete with security and a welcome desk. The ground floor at face value looked like any other ordinary office building: winding hallways, offices, and the occasional break room. A bank of elevators near the front entryway only went up, covering the four upper floors comprised of think-tank lab work, human resources on the 3rd floor, rows of offices and conference rooms, and whatever else was deemed necessary for a contemporary think-tank.

But set back from prying eyes was another world entirely: a centralized computer room situated very near the command center of the entire covert agency operation, the War Room. From that point on, everything was top secret and for private eyes only. A bank of elevators that just went down hit nine subfloors, all with specific functions. The armory, tactical, training center, research and specialty labs, cold storage, the infirmary, and other pertinent tasks for an unnamed government agency.

The Phoenix infirmary was on sublevel one, with quick access to the hidden loading dock. The infirmary could run blood work, stitch up wounds, take x-rays, patch up bullet wounds and frostbite, administer blood products, and triage agents, but there was a limit to what the infirmary could manage. About seven miles away was Phoenix Medical, another unmarked building that could actually manage more severe and critical patients for more extended periods. However, it was set-up for trauma and infectious conditions, which were more common and of concern when working with an off-the-books government agency.

As MacGyver and Dalton stepped off the elevator, they passed through the comparatively small external waiting room. Five uncomfortable chairs and a small coffee table loaded with magazines, random books, and napkins sat off to the left side of the wide open area. Two vending machines and a mediocre coffee machine were sequestered to the left side of the room. Directly across from the elevators were two automatic doors, locked at all times – whether to keep unwelcome visitors out or to keep unruly patients in, no one could be sure.

The doors clicked and immediately swung open as the locking mechanism came undone, the medical staff inside the waiting infirmary bay expecting their arrival. It didn’t surprise Mac in the least – Matty probably called them as soon as Jack and he had left the War Room. Or the surveillance cameras had seen their presence exiting the elevator, and a nurse assumed one of them needed medical care. The now-blood red tissues coming from Mac's nose certainly sparked curiosity and concern.

Mac’s pacing slowed as the pair neared the front nurse’s station. Thankfully, there was no actual Nurse Jackie who worked in the infirmary, or even at Phoenix Medical; however, a couple of the nurses could be terrors if Mac didn’t obey their every command. Thankfully, none of them were on shift that morning.

Clara Geyer, a certified Critical Care Registered Nurse, was already standing from her seat at the desk, a smile on her lips. She had taken care of Angus MacGyver more than a handful of times over the last eighteen months since she had become employed by the Phoenix Foundation. She double checked to make sure her computer station was locked and quickly stepped away from the desk, a box of tissues already in her open hands. “Mr. MacGyver. Mr. Dalton.” She had already seen the problem: Mac’s nose stuffed with saturated tissues, the red liquid slipping down his upper lip, trailing around his full lips, and coming dangerously close to dripping onto the floor. She passed the box of Kleenex to Mac in one smooth motion, simultaneously waving the pair to follow her down the hall to an exam room.

Taking a handful of tissues, Mac removed the nearly-dripping tissues from his nose and shoved more up into his nostrils, his nose starting to feel irritated from the rough material. The standard tissues around the Phoenix weren’t terrible, but they weren’t the best either. To make matters even more interesting, Mac was pretty sure blood was now seeping down the back of his nose and into his throat, the tang of iron evident on the back of his tongue.

The trio entered an exam room just off the central medical bay, Clara patting the gurney for Mac to take a seat. She gave her hands a quick clean with hand sanitizer and did quick work of donning the standard purple non-latex gloves. She had no interest in being exposed to any blood that shift. 

Like any exam room, the area was comfortably small, housing one visitor’s chair, a stool, the standard gurney with smartly executed folds at the edges of the sheet and mattress, a small sink set into a counter that held boxes of gloves and other medical items, and a cabinet above the sink for other useful medical supplies.

Jack stood at the head of the gurney, arms folded over his chest, watching the nurse’s every move. Clara grabbed a handful of gauze from the cabinet above the sink in one hand, her other hand reaching for blood draw supplies to be utilized momentarily.

Stepping in front of her now-seated patient, she carefully removed the newly placed tissues, clean gauze dabbing at the steady stream of blood flowing from both nostrils. “When did the nosebleed start?”     

"About ten minutes ago," Mac said, coughing as he felt more blood in the back of his throat. The taste and sensation were going from irritating to aggravating pretty quickly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mac wondered if a human being could bleed out and die from a nosebleed alone. _Well, if it doesn’t clot or stop, then there is that possibility._

"Any recent trauma to your nose? Punched in the face within the past couple of days? Just returned from a drier climate?" She knew his history well – never had a known nosebleed, even after multiple facial abrasions, one broken nose, too many concussions to count, and constant humidity changes as the career agent traveled from country to country in short periods.

While waiting for his response, she expertly cleaned his bloody face with a small bottle of saline she had plucked off the counter, watching the newly placed gauze turn red almost instantly. With a gentle hand, Clara carefully tilted Mac's head back, a small penlight shining up into his right and then his left nostril. She was looking for any trauma or abnormalities that could explain the sudden onset of an unusual nosebleed. Other than blood splattering every membrane and interior nasal structure, nothing seemed out of place. She couldn't even tell where the bleeding had started.

He shook his head minutely, trying not to disturb her assessment. He coughed once more, trying to clear the blood as it dripped down the back of his throat. With her assessment completed, Mac could finally answer her questions. “Nope. The last fist fight I was in was all aimed at my stomach. They did leave a scattering of bruises across my abdomen, back, and they left this beauty.” He lifted his left arm, nodding towards the gigantic handprint bruise, still an angry purple and red.

Clara handed Mac more clean gauze and instructed him to hold it under his nose and not in his nose while applying pressure to the soft nasal structures to help try to clot the area bleeding. She also recommended he sit forward, to minimize blood dripping down his throat.

She did a quick glance at his left arm, then his right arm, eyes tracking all visible skin, new and old bruising being stored up in her head for documentation and a thorough report to the attending physician on staff.

“The bruising is concerning. Do you mind if I lift up your shirt to see you back, chest, and abdomen?”

Mac shook his head, eyes glancing at Jack as Clara carefully unbuttoned her patient’s light blue dress shirt and slowly lifted up the white t-shirt underneath. She didn’t touch as she gave his abdomen and chest a thorough scan, hands and body moving slowly to the right to get a good look at Mac’s back. Purple, red, and yellow bruising scattered across multiple areas – front and back ribs, sternum, some prominently defined spinal bruising, a bruise that looked suspiciously like a fist at his right flank, and many small bursts of bruising to his left lower abdomen, center upper stomach, and right upper abdomen. Added to the handprint bruise on his left wrist, a few smaller bruises across his biceps on both arms, and a deep purple bruise on his right pinky finger, Clara made no assumptions about what was going on physiologically. It sounded like Mac had taken some hard hits recently, but the bruising wasn't all from fists and odd-end objects. She could only imagine that he had more bruising on his legs, possibly even wrapping around his hips and in his groin.

“Damn it, Mac. What did those terrorists do to you?!” Jack gave Mac a piercing glare, his face in disbelief from the obvious extent of the bruising caused while in captivity. Mac had brushed off any concerned remarks while still focused on the mission, ignoring the multiple comments to seek medical attention. There wasn’t much a physician could do for bruises, and Mac had eventually been seen by a Ukrainian physician before heading back to the States once the op had been completed successfully. Everyone had been and apparently _still was_ too worked up about his physical health.

“I’m fine, Jack. They beat me up. Nothing new.”

Jack would have snapped back at his partner, but Clara interrupted the pair’s banter, requesting permission to palpate Mac’s abdomen. She noted another abnormality of the abdomen, on top of the bruising. Mac shrugged in compliance, following her direction to lie down on the gurney, his hands still occupied with his bleeding nose. With his shirt pulled up, her eyes watched his left upper abdomen closely. It had a definite bulge that she hadn't seen the last time she had examined him eight weeks ago. All agents had routine physicals every six months, and everything had looked normal on his physical. The bruising was all very recent and fresh, even the almost-healed bruising. He was known to take a beating or two, but even this amount of bruising seemed suspicious.

He coughed once again, swallowing down an even stronger taste of iron. Lying down had caused his nose to start to drip faster down his throat, and it tasted disgusting.

“Almost done,” Clara assured him after a quick glove change, her hands gently palpating first his right lower abdomen, and moving clockwise. As she felt for any masses or organ enlargement, she asked if he had any pain or discomfort. He denied her inquiries with each quadrant, even when she noticed that his spleen was unquestionably enlarged in the left upper quadrant.

Completing her focused assessment, Clara helped Mac sit up, the gauze saturated in red. She exchanged the old with new gauze, reminding him to hold gentle pressure. She washed her hands and slipped from the room, promising to return with Dr. Lawrence in a few short minutes.

Jack huffed in frustration. “It’s just a nosebleed – right?”

Mac shrugged, gingerly stretching his neck of a kink from the plane ride earlier that morning. “I don’t think she likes how much bruising I’ve acquired recently. But she’s the medical professional – _you_ aren’t a trained nurse or doctor, Jack.” He gave Jack his own glare, Jack huffing again before finally sitting down in the nearby chair.

The pair were silent for a few minutes. Mac coughed again from the post-nasal drip and the fact he could now only breathe appropriately through his mouth. Jack grabbed the trash can from the corner and handed it to Mac, allowing him to spit up bloody mucus. The iron taste was strong – pure blood. He hoped Dr. Lawrence and Clara could stem the bleeding – it was downright frustrating.

A quick sharp rap of knuckles on the doorframe alerted both agents to a new visitor. Dr.  Lawrence strolled in, Clara coming in just behind the aging physician. At five-foot-nothing, Dr. Travis Lawrence was a commanding presence wherever he went. He was one of the newest additions to the Phoenix Foundation medical entourage, only hired two months before. He had a long career in emergency medicine at various departments across the United States at prestigious medical centers, held multiple faculty positions for Johns Hopkins and Harvard, and even was trained in the army and CIA for a brief stint back in the late seventies into the early eighties. He was smart, thoughtful, funny, and caring. Everyone who interacted with him felt at ease with his medical care.

Dr. Lawrence sat on the rolling stool and dragged himself up to where Mac was seated, eyes peering over the edge of his rounded gold eyeglasses at his patient's current posture and condition. Clara set a bag of ice and extra medical supplies on the counter before turning her attention to preparing lab supplies for a blood draw.       

“Well, Mac, I can clearly see the problem. Grade A epistaxis.”

Mac nodded glumly, the gauze red once more in his blood-stained fingers. “I swear it wasn’t my fault, Doc.”

Dr. Lawrence let out a quiet laugh, a small smile on his age-weathered face, dimples accentuated by frequent laughter. “It never is, Mac. It never is. With what Clara has told me, I’m going to order a couple of blood tests – a complete blood count and a peek at your clotting function. You’ve never had a nosebleed before, is that right?”

“No, sir, I’ve never had a nosebleed before today. And this one happened spontaneously. I’m a little confused.” Mac gratefully accepted the bag of ice from Clara’s outstretched hand, smashing the cold against his nose. The cold and the pressure would help constrict any blood vessels and maybe stop the bleeding.

“Understandable. I’m going to order a medicine called Afrin to help see if we can dry out your nose and stop the bleeding. We’ll keep some gauze in your nose for about four hours, and if we can’t stop the bleeding completely, we may resort to some nasal bullets for more direct pressure. I know you’ve been holding tissues and gauze to your nose for about twenty-five minutes now, and that timing alone must be frustrating. Let’s get you patched up as quickly as possible, is that good with you?”

The young patient nodded. Dr. Lawrence stood, patted Mac’s shoulder, and left to put in orders. Clara was well aware of the plan of care as she carefully set up and drew two different colored tubes of blood from the crook of Mac’s arm. She exchanged his messy red gauze for new bright white gauze before she left to send the labs off down the hall and talk to the small pharmacy about getting the Afrin for his nose.

Jack’s eyebrows were pinched in concern, watching Clara disappear from the exam room once more.

Mac sighed, his gaze anywhere but on Jack's look of worry. His partner could be a helicopter-parent at the worst of times, and a mother-hen at the best of times. Mac wasn't even critically ill, and he could feel the penetrating stare of a far-too-concerned brother.

“Okay, Jack. You have something to say. Say it.”

Delta Dalton threw his hands up in defeat, back on his feet without a second thought. "I have a right to be anxious, don’t I?”

Mac’s eyebrows shot up, eyes tracking his partner’s anxious pacing.

“Jack – hold on. Why are you anxious?”

Arm flung out haphazardly, Jack waved to the room they were sitting in as he walked himself in circles. “In all the years I’ve known you, you have never had a nosebleed. What if – what if those terrorists poisoned you?”

If it weren’t for the bag of ice, gauze, and necessary utilization of both his hands in stopping the constant flow of blood, Mac would have tried to stifle his coming giggle. But it didn’t work that way – the laughter echoed throughout the small exam room, laughter quickly turning into a series of harsh coughs.

Jack stopped dead in his tracks, hands quick to grip Mac’s shoulders, fear written all over his face.

“You okay, bud?”

Mac nodded his head, the coughs subsiding. The laughing had started an ache in his head, his nose already throbbing with pain. _Maybe too much blood loss. I’ve gone insane. But really, Jack, poison? I mean, I guess it isn’t out of the realm of possibilities…_

Clara returned at that moment, two Tylenol and the bottle of Afrin nose spray in her hand. She made quick work of patching Mac up best she could, spraying the Afrin in his nose, gently packing clean gauze in both nostrils, and ordering him to pinch his nose for another ten minutes to help activate the medicine and help slow the bleeding. Mac obeyed, his left-hand pinching while his right accepted a glass of water to rinse his mouth out before taking the prescribed pain medication. He didn’t even need to ask for it – Clara just knew.

"Labs should be back in about ten minutes. At that point, Dr. Lawrence will probably send you off on your way once he sees everything looks okay. Maybe some mild blood loss, but your blood work looked perfect eight weeks ago. I wouldn't see a reason for it to be any different now." Clara cleared off the counter, neatly organizing the room and making sure Mac and Jack had everything they needed to be comfortable while waiting.

She stepped to the door, the floor-to-ceiling curtain in her hand, ready to pull closed. “Can I do anything else for you boys while you wait?”

Jack had eventually sat back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest in mock boredom. He threw Mac a glance but said nothing.

Mac shook his head, his left hand still pinching his nose closed, mouth open like a fish out of water while his body leaned slightly forward on the gurney. He sat at the edge, looking somewhat older than his age. He was worn out. The nosebleed didn't help matters. Plus, breathing is hard when you are an obligate nose breather as a healthy twenty-eight-year-old human male, and you can't breathe out of your nose!

The curtain slid closed, and Mac let out another long-suffering sigh. 

“What’s going on in that big brain of yours, Hoss?”

The younger partner shrugged. “Just tired. I want to finish the debrief and get home. We ran ourselves ragged this last mission. And I can _smell_ a new one brewing.”

Jack let out an inhumane snort, eyes crinkling in laughter. “That was a terrible pun!”

Mac reached over, playfully smacking Jack upside the head. But neither individual got the chance to retort, the curtain to the room being pushed open with no warning.

Dr. Lawrence stepped into the room, Clara hovering just behind him with wide eyes of – _worry, concern, fear?!_ Mac was quick to sit up straight, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Mac, your blood work does not look good. You had your first spontaneous nose bleed because your platelet count is five thousand. Normal is between one hundred and fifty thousand and four hundred thousand. Bleeding from any orifice or fragile membrane can occur without warning when your platelet count is at ten thousand or below. You have a high risk of internal bleeding. You need a platelet transfusion, but more important is finding the cause of your low platelet count. However, because Phoenix Medical doesn't have the knowledge or the capacity to treat a suspected blood disorder, I'm going to send you out before I can perform any further interventions."

 _Low platelets. Severely low platelets._ “So – that all means what exactly?” _Bruising, bleeding, aching – that’s not normal._ Mac had the deer-in-headlights facial expression, cheeks turning even paler with the news of crushing defeat.

 “I’m going to send you to Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center. An ambulance will be pulling up to the loading dock within the next fifteen minutes. Dr. Aaron Kang is a colleague of mine that specializes in blood disorders. He will take over your case and do further investigation into your abnormal blood work.”

Mac’s mind whirled with the new information. He could barely speak he was so taken back by the sudden change in plans. No debrief. Straight to an unfamiliar hospital, no passing go, no collecting $200. He blinked, trying to process his new predicament. _Something is wrong. Was I – was I poisoned after all? But I don’t – I don’t understand. I’ve been feeling fine. Right? Normal aches and pains of the job. Tired. Bone pain. Headaches. Blurred vision. Nothing new._

When Mac didn't seem able to ask any further questions, Jack spoke up for them both, eyes wide with barely-concealed panic. "Now, hold on a second. Mac gets a say in this, doesn't he? He doesn't just get to go to some hospital that has never cared for him before today. Usually, he's able to get all his care here. What's the difference?!"

Dr. Lawrence looked remarkably calm for someone delivering unexpected news. His voice was quiet as he spoke. “It isn’t just Mac’s platelets that are concerning. The rest of his complete blood count is abnormal, since it is completely different from the blood work obtained eight weeks ago. The white blood cell count was critically high at 55,200 when normal is generally below 11,000. You either have a raging infection, or you have a new-onset blood disorder. I am no expert in hematology. You need specialized care that the Phoenix cannot provide. All I know is that this is an emergency that cannot wait another day, let alone another hour.”

Mac was still silent, eyes staring blankly at Dr. Lawrence. _What – what’s wrong with me? What – what do I do? I don’t know what to do._

Slowly coming back to the present, Mac glanced over at Jack. Jack looked about the same as Mac felt – denial, fear, worry, and panic wrapped up in a closed-off expression. He swallowed hard, his mind barely registering the taste of blood. “I-I-I – don’t understand. W-w-what is wrong with me?”

Jack was standing at Mac's side instantly, the distinct tremble of fear and rising panic from his partner moving the Delta into a defensive position. "Hey now, we’ll find the answers.” _Dear god, please don’t be poison._

“I don’t know what’s wrong, Mac. That’s why I’m going to send you to the best physician I know who can find answers for you.” Dr. Lawrence put a firm, reassuring hand on Mac’s quacking shoulder. “You’ll find your answers. I promise.”

Clara had disappeared shortly after Dr. Lawrence started talking about Mac’s blood counts, but she reappeared, a frown on her face. “The ambulance is here.”

Panic flooded Mac’s eyes, his breathing coming in erratic, short puffs. “J-J-Jack, get my go bag from my locker.” He had a feeling the upcoming hospital stay was not going to be a quick in and out. He wasn’t going to be returning to his home that evening – _Bozer. Riley. Matty. Dad. Crap, what do I tell them? What do I do?_

As if a switch had been flipped, Jack was back in command and ready to do whatever his partner needed. Nodding, he said, “Okay, Mac. I can grab it. I’ll be right back. I’m coming with you in the ambulance, okay? I’m not letting you go anywhere alone. I’m not letting you out of my sight!” The last part was yelled as Jack took off at a sprint down the hall.

Neither medical professional protested as Jack disappeared down the hall, both understanding the common familial link between the Sergeant and the Specialist. There had been many a night at Phoenix Medical when either individual was in a hospital bed, the other nearby, taking watch. Why would they change habit now? Jack’s sole job at the Phoenix Foundation was to protect the team, and Mac was his team.

No matter what happened, answers would be found. Dr. Lawrence had a feeling it wouldn’t be an easy journey to peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely Impossiblepluto for giving me advice and reading over this chapter! 
> 
> The nitty-gritty really starts in the next few chapters, this is just a small taste of what is to come. All medical information is as accurate as my professional knowledge, Mircomedex, and all of my nursing textbooks allow me to be (while still being a fictional piece of work).
> 
> If something confuses you, please let me know! As a nurse, I can get really technical on the medical aspect of things (even though people tell me I'm good at translating medical into layman's terms, but ya know), so if you, as a reader, don't understand something, I want to know so I can better perfect my writing skills! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, the kudos, the comments, and bookmarks! You guys make me so giddy to be writing this! 
> 
> Love, Danielle


	3. Topsy-Turvy

> Oh I don't know / What's around the bend / Oh, all I know / Is that my love, It knows no end

_(Forever On Your Side by Needtobreathe)_

* * *

 

Sleep was evading Jack like an enemy intent on keeping hidden. Wide open but unseeing eyes stared blankly at the white ceiling of an average hospital room. _White, white, white everywhere. So boring._ Granted, the room was far more spacious than a regular medical-surgical room, or even the rooms at Phoenix Medical, but that didn’t make the place any more welcoming. It was still a hospital, and Mac was always the object of constant attention.

Jack’s mind was going a mile a minute, all the worst-case scenarios happening to Mac flickering by in constant repetition. The kid was nearby, restlessly trying to sleep in the standard hospital bed while Jack shifted silently in the uncomfortable, plastic recliner. If Mac were gonna be in the hospital longer than a couple of nights, he’d break down and accept the offer of a cot from the nursing staff, but tonight Jack wouldn’t be sleeping even with his prevailing exhaustion.  

The ambulance trip that morning had been uneventful. Mac had acquiesced to the request to lay on the stretcher for the short ride to UCLA Medical Center, Jack sitting on the hard bench beside his best friend as the whining sirens signaled haste. The technicians had tried to prevent Jack from riding along to the hospital, but Jack had the riot act memorized and on standby for moments just like this. Dr. Lawrence asked them to reconsider, glaring eyes focused on Jack’s defensive posture. They eventually allowed Jack to climb in the back next to the stretcher, and the doors were shut without further commentary. One paramedic sat beside Jack, watching a quietly beeping vital signs machine and asking Mac questions, while the second paramedic sat in the jump seat up front, willing traffic to obey laws concerning emergency vehicles. Both go-bags were at Jack’s feet, all the essentials ready at a moments notice. Socks, underwear, shirts, pants, pajamas, extra pair of shoes, toiletries, phone charging cord, a pair of headphones, two water bottles, and three protein bars. Jack’s bag had a personal gun and two knives hidden in a secret pocket, while Mac had twine, tape, homemade matches, and a small back-up knife buried in amongst his clothing. Mac’s trusted Swiss Army knife was tucked into a jean pocket, ready at a moment’s notice.   

In all honesty, Jack had believed Dr. Lawrence was overreacting by sending Mac to an unsanctioned hospital. Phoenix Medical could handle anything, specifically poisoning. And that is all Jack wanted to believe was wrong with his partner. He had been poisoned, messing up his blood. Once more blood tests could be done, the right antidote could be administered, and Mac could get back to normal life. The only symptom Mac was showing was a nosebleed – a first, but it wasn’t an uncommon symptom of certain types of poisoning. But a small voice in the very depths of Jack’s brain told him that maybe it wasn’t poisoning and there was something else very wrong with Mac’s blood.

That still small voice started screaming as the paramedics, Mac, and Jack all stepped off the elevator onto the sixth floor of Ronald Reagan Medical Center, a looming sign welcoming the group onto the unit. **Hematology and Bone Marrow Transplant Unit, Six East.** Jack barely understood what hematology meant (had to do with blood, maybe?), and the words ‘bone marrow transplant’ seemed as foreign as the chemistry and physics lectures Mac liked to preach when working on some technical, scientific project. _I know we can transplant organs, but what the hell is bone marrow, and how do they transplant that?! Mac, what have we gotten ourselves into? Dr. Lawrence!!_

The group entered the unit through two large double doors, Jack’s eyes quickly mapping out the space for defensible positions while determining weak points in the infrastructure and noticeable security. The unit was locked – someone inside at the receptionist area had to buzz them in. That provided some mild comfort to Jack, knowing unidentified individuals couldn’t just come in without clearance of some sort. He would need a copy of the blueprint for the entire hospital, a copy of the security protocols in place throughout the building, and a rundown of all security measures in use including cameras, secure rooms, and all secure units. If Mac were going to be staying for longer than twenty-four hours, Jack would need to be privy to all security measures.

If Mac had been poisoned, someone had done it intentionally, and Mac would need protection. Thankfully, Matilda Webber was on top of her game. Upon hearing that one of her agents needed further testing at a hospital other than Phoenix Medical, she had called up the on-duty tactical team and given them an assignment that had no current projected end-date. Before the ambulance even arrived at Ronald Reagan Medical Center, three Phoenix agents had shown up to take control of the security situation. One Phoenix agent was tasked with monitoring the hospital environment for anything suspicious through the closed-circuit television monitors at the main security office, while another Phoenix agent patrolled the grounds outside. The last agent, one Agent Brendan Farther, was the first to take up position outside of room 6126, his duty inherently understood that he would protect Agent MacGyver with his life.

Matty had gone to great lengths to ensure the safety of her agent while dealing with uncertainty. Room 6126 was at the farthest end of the unit, allowing for Agent Farther to be positioned discreetly in an alcove and away from prying eyes on the rest of the unit while watching over the perimeter and noting anyone who entered or left room 6126. Patient care was minimally impacted throughout the rest of the unit by this choice, which gave the nursing staff no reason to fight the increased security. It benefited everyone. 

Mac found his new normal in room 6126, a huge window looking east towards downtown. While Mac scooted himself from the stretcher into a somewhat familiar hospital bed, Jack took it upon himself to inspect the entire room with a critical eye. The bed was standard issue medical equipment, no fancy bells or whistles. Above the headboard was the usual medical gas valve, oxygen valve, and suction canister, already expertly supplied in case of emergency. The bathroom was unremarkable – moderately spacious, with a walk-in shower and storage for personal items. The room itself was a large square, room enough for the bed, an overstuffed patient recliner, a floor-to-ceiling closet, two guest chairs with a small table, one-night stand with three drawers, and a bedside table. There was a sink and counter in the southwest corner with cabinets for nursing staff supplies next to a desktop computer situated near the bathroom door. The most beautiful part of the room was the large picture window that looked east across Los Angeles. _Strange, the window doesn’t open to let in fresh air_. That alone knocked the room down a peg in Jack’s mind.

As the paramedics loaded up their stretcher and reported off to a waiting nurse, a brown-haired female of about twenty stepped around the stretcher and offered a pleasant smile to both Mac and Jack before she set a pile of medical supplies on the bedside table at the foot of the bed.

“Hi,” she greeted them, a thick ponytail bouncing against the back of her black scrubs as she spoke. “My name is Madison. I’m a student nurse gaining clinical experience here on the BMT unit. Alex is my preceptor, and we’ll be taking care of you until seven this evening. We’ll be admitting you and obtaining orders from the doctor. As soon as Alex gets the run-down of your ambulance ride here, we’re gonna start an IV and draw lab work.”

Mac just nodded, his hands fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of his jeans. He sat cross-legged on the bed, feeling small and helpless at the uncertainty of it all. He hadn’t breathed a word – or a _sound_ – sense leaving Phoenix headquarters, answering the medics’ questions with head nods and shakes. There was no way he was trusting his voice to speak for him. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t feeling great. A gut-wrenching feel of nausea, impending doom, and a full-on panic attack was progressively building inside of him, starting when Dr. Lawrence told him he was getting transferred.

The stretcher was whisked away, the paramedics disappearing down the hall. They left Madison, Jack, Mac, and presumably Alex, alone in the room. The silence was broken by a weak moan of distress, followed by Mac’s dry heaves into a nearby emesis basin, conveniently ready on the nightstand. There was nothing all that substantial in his stomach to expel, his diaphragm reflexively heaving small amounts of stomach acid and bile.

Alex’s nametag - _Alexandria T., BSN, RN, BMTCN_ – flashed as she quickly jumped into action, delegating Madison to grab a warm washcloth while she logged into the medical record to examine orders placed pre-transfer. Dr. Kang was good like that, ordering things himself.

“Mr. MacGyver, we’re gonna get you some nausea medications. Madison has been working on her IV skills, she’ll get one into you in a quick jiffy.” Alex’s face was framed by short, red, pixie cut hair, black-rimmed glasses outlining bold brown irises. She turned back towards her patient, sympathy in her glowing face. “I’m Alex, by the way. I’ll be your nurse today.” Fast fingers clicked in the medical record before she disappeared out the door, the blinds on the outside of the door window banging from the force.  

Jack didn’t know what to do. He’d seen Mac vomit before – coming out of anesthesia was always tricky for the blonde, his stomach always rebelling – but this was a whole new feeling of helpless. Crouching beside the bed, Jack frowned, his chest sucking in a deep breath.

“I’m here, Mac. I ain’t gonna leave you, ‘k?”

A warm washcloth appeared as Madison gently draped it across Mac’s forehead. “Being sick sucks. I’m gonna try to start an IV on you so we can give you that anti-nausea medication, okay?” She gave him a small smile as he grunted in response, his stomach more nauseous now than trying to eject its contents.

Mac’s veins were crap – usually from being crud in general, and now apparent dehydration. Madison tried once but was unsuccessful in placing a 20-gauge intravenous catheter into Mac’s right forearm. Alex got it on her first attempt on Mac’s left hand, her fingers deftly sliding the needle out and attaching extension tubing to the catheter hub.

Madison took over injecting the anti-nausea medication into the IV, her quiet words asking if Mac felt any pain or discomfort. Mac denied any pain, just the usual cold he felt up his arm from the saline flushing the medication.

“Mr. MacGyver –“ Alex had stepped back to the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“Mac,” he whispered, nausea slowly ebbing away as the medication started to take effect. “Mr. MacGyver is my father. I go by Mac.”

“I apologize,” Alex backtracked, smiling kindly back at her patient. “Mac. Dr. Kang will be up to see you soon, but before I let him obtain his information, Madison and I would like to ask you a few questions, listen to your heart and lungs, and grab some lab work. Dr. Kang saw your blood work from the Phoenix Foundation and has ordered a multitude of blood tests, along with two units of platelets. We must draw something called a type and screen before we can administer those platelets. Have you ever been given blood products?”

He nodded as Madison gently pried his iron gripe from the gray emesis basin, the washcloth now off to the side. “I’ve received platelets, red blood cells, whole blood, and cryoprecipitate.”

“You were in _shock_ when they gave you cryo. How do you remember that?!” Jack had dragged the large recliner from the corner over to the bedside, parking himself in the seat to Mac’s right. It allowed the medical staff to reach Mac unhindered from the doorway and provided protection from the sixth story window.

Old habits die hard – it didn’t matter what floor they were on, even in the hospital. Mac had been attacked by a rogue assassin while undercover in a skyscraper on the twentieth floor. The assassin had come from the roof of all places. Jack had almost tackled the current director of DXS at the time, Jack Hornsbey, but settled for a quick punch for leaving Mac out in the open like that. Jack had been on the seventh floor when his partner had yelled. One swollen eye, two broken ribs, and a hairline skull fracture later, Mac had recovered to his usual perfection. Jack never let the same mistake happen again.

Mac shrugged. “I was lucid? This is Jack, by the way. Do you guys have visiting hours, so I can kick him out at some point?”

Alex and Madison both giggled at the comment, Jack boring a death glare at his partner.

“No visiting hours. Jack can even stay the night if he wants,” Madison replied cheerfully, taking a big bag of fluids and tubing from Alex and hanging it to prime and start running through the IV in Mac’s hand.

“HA! Not getting rid of me that quick!”

Mac rolled his eyes. There was no doubt in his mind that Jack would stay, no matter how long Mac was in the hospital. He just hoped it wasn’t for too much longer.

A sharp knock on the door alerted all occupants to a new face peeking in through the crack. “Hey, Alex, Madison. I brought the standing scale, and I have his armband and blood band. Want to do that now?”

With Larissa’s help, Alex and Madison grabbed Mac’s weight and height, assessing his balance when he stood from the bed. Using two patient identifiers, Alex, Madison, and another nurse, Larissa, got an identification band and a blood band placed on Mac, helping to keep him safe will a patient in the hospital.

“Full name and date of birth,” Madison asked, her delicate fingers holding onto the all-familiar wrist identification band.

“Angus Jackson MacGyver, January 23rd, 1990.”

Once Mac was officially confirmed to be who he should be, Larissa left the room with the scale, and both Alex and Madison jumped into asking a plethora of mundane questions, inquiring about Mac’s family history, his personal history, social history, and medical history. They asked about any current medications and any allergies while hooking Mac up to IV fluids, grabbing a set of vitals, and assessing his lungs, heart, abdominal sounds, palpated his abdomen, checked his peripheral pulses, and helped him change into his pajama bottoms and a hospital gown.

Not too long after Larissa left, there was another sharp knock on the door, and a petite female with a white lab coat asked to come in to draw blood work. She made quick work of his arm, getting blood flashback and drawing up enough of the red liquid for ten different colored tubes.

As the lab technician left, Mac rubbing the crook of his left elbow and frowning unapprovingly, Jack had to know why they had just taken half of Mac’s blood supply.

“That was _a lot of blood_. What are you all testing for?!”

Madison had stepped from the room to answer a call light for another patient while Alex finished documenting on the computer, her back turned to them as she clicked through multiple pages of the medical record.

“Well, we needed a blood sample for that type and screen, so we can get those platelets in as soon as possible. Probably another hour once the lab starts processing the tube. We want to recheck a complete blood count, have that on file and compare it to further tests as we narrow down an official diagnosis on what’s plaguing you.” She turned, resting her left hip against the computer workstation and taping a finger against her right cheek thoughtfully. “Then we want to check how well your blood is coagulating and clotting, because of your nose bleed. Dr. Kang always wants to see how well your kidneys and liver are functioning, view your acid-base balance, see if you need any necessary electrolytes like potassium, calcium, or magnesium. And some preliminary viral panels, like Hepatitis B and C, cytomegalovirus, and Epstein-Barr virus. Most people with healthy immune systems don’t have any symptoms from cytomegalovirus or Epstein-Barr virus, but they can cause blood abnormalities and cause illness if your immune system is deficient. I think that about covers all of the tubes Pat drew.”

Jack felt like Alex was speaking another language entirely to him. But he didn’t get a chance to respond before the door opened _once again_ and a thin-haired, well-kept man in a brilliant white coat stood in the limelight of the hallway.

“Dr. Kang! We’ve got him pretty much settled. We just drew those labs and got them sent off. Results should be in within the hour. Platelets will be infused soon. Anything else you would like from me before you get to your interview?”

The imposing figure gave Angus MacGyver a once over with his black-brown almond eyes, mouth quirking into a disapproving frown. “Put in an order for a chest x-ray, abdominal and splenic ultrasound, and when I’m done, please grab an EKG.”

Alex nodded, repeating back his requests before exiting the room. “Use the call light if you need anything!”

The doctor may have had all the features of Asian ancestry, short black hair, almond tear-shaped eyes, and a strict posture, but when he spoke, his accent told both Mac and Jack that Dr. Aaron Kang hailed from New England. He moved with a stiff upper back and made no formalities as he held out his hand to Mac, introducing himself.

“Mr. MacGyver, my name is Dr. Aaron Kang. I was asked to consult on your case from Dr. Lawrence when he saw an alarming concern with your blood work this morning. We’re going to work together to find what ails you and get you on the right treatment, alright?” All while introducing himself, Dr. Kang had pulled up a folding chair with his free hand and sat without preamble, becoming eye-level with his patient as they shook hands in greeting.

Jack had stood from the recliner, finding he was too antsy to sit much longer. He leaned against the wall beside the huge picture window, his eyes following the doctor’s every move. If they were in for the long haul, Jack had to learn to trust this man to provide the utmost care for his partner, without any reservations. Trust would be hard to come by if the doctor wasn’t completely upfront with what was going on with Mac.

“Please, call me Mac. I’m still a little confused about why I had to come here, Dr. Kang. All of my medical care has been adequately managed by the Phoenix Foundation. From my understanding, a high white blood cell count can account for infection.”

The doctor nodded, giving thought to his next few words. “Dr. Lawrence believes there is an underlying problem that he cannot manage. We will, of course, rule out all possibilities. The biggest concern is that you aren’t manufacturing any of your own platelets. A count of five thousand is an emergency and is not normal if you were to just have an infection.”

“Riddle me this, doc. What do you think Mac has?”

Doctor Kang looked up, focusing his gaze on the voice that had spoken. He regarded Jack for a moment. “And you are?”

“That’s Jack. He knows basically my entire medical history, probably better than me. He’s allowed to listen in. Asking questions _not advised_.” Mac shot a glare over at his burly bodyguard, trying to get him to take it down a notch.

Jack pursed his lips and crossed his arms, waiting for an answer to his inquiry. He wanted to know what the hell everyone was thinking was such an emergency from a nosebleed.

“He asks a valid question. Unfortunately, I need to conduct a few tests to make an official diagnosis. Low platelets counts could be from some type of bone marrow failure, like aplastic anemia – however, your white blood cells would also be low. An autoimmune disease called immune thrombocytopenia is possible, which directly targets the body’s ability to manufacture platelets. An infection could be the culprit, but I would say the combination of high white blood cells and low platelets concern more for prolonged poisoning or another disease altogether.

“You must understand, this is all from the first glance at your complete blood count from this morning. And that alone cannot tell me what is going on inside of your body. I need a more complete picture, which is why I would like to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?”

Mac gave a slow nod.

“How have you been feeling over the past few weeks? Tired, lethargic, dizzy, lightheaded, unable to perform your usual daily activities like normal?”

Mac gave a quick short shake of his head. “I’ve been feeling fine, doc. Maybe a little tired, but it comes with the job. We’ve been run ragged the past few weeks, even just got home this morning from a job. I was gonna go for a run, take a shower, and get some much-needed sleep before the nosebleed happened.”

“You’re an active runner?”

“At least two miles every day, when I'm not on the job. I live in the Hollywood Hills, and there are some great trails near my house. Sometimes I push it to five miles in a day.”

“Haven’t been feeling more tired than usual after a good run? Extra tired, more exhausted?”

Mac shook his head. “Not that I can think of. But I haven’t been able to get a good run in for about two weeks. Though come to think of it, I was feeling short of breath, mostly while running, sometimes with other activities, but I chalked it up to deconditioning.”

“Except you say you run at least two miles every day. Was there a reason you believed you were deconditioned?”

The young blonde shrugged. “Felt out of practice with running recently. Maybe not as enjoyable. I’m not sure.”        

Dr. Kang nodded, making no judgments as he formulated a diagnostic plan to be implemented immediately. “What is it that you do for a living?”

Their cover story flowed from Mac’s mouth as naturally as running did for his legs. There was no need to break cover – they were both partners at an unconventional think tank in Los Angeles, working on unconventional problems all over the world. When the need came up, they were on the next flight out of the country.

“I assume you do a lot of traveling?”

“Yup. Could I have caught a bug from another country?”

Dr. Kang stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Possibly. As I said, I can’t rule anything out at this moment. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary recently? Lumps, bumps, increased bruising, an infection that waxes and wanes, frequent illness, cuts, and gashes that have difficulty clotting?”

“Oh, he’s got bruises. Fresh bruising on top of old bruising. Some of them just appeared out of nowhere. And that handprint bruise occurred three days ago!”

Mac absently covered the significant bruise with his right hand, mindful of the IV protruding from the top of his hand. “I’m a bit of a klutz at times. Hazard prone, I guess. I just assumed the bruising was normal, considering the past couple of weeks’ activities. I wasn’t all that worried.” He swallowed, mouth dry as his memory betrayed him. The last shower he’d taken had identified two different lumps in awkward places, almost two weeks ago. Thinking about them now, he knew they weren’t normal.

"I – I do have two lumps that feel out of the ordinary. I didn’t think anything of them. I only noticed them about two weeks ago. They aren’t painful or anything – just kind of there.” Mac slowly unbuttoned the right sleeve of the hospital gown, reaching towards his right clavicle and feeling around. “Yeah, right here.” He touched a raised area just above the middle of his collarbone, no visible redness or pain, just a bump in the skin.

The chair screeched across the floor as Dr. Kang stood and walked to the sink, washing his hands before applying a pair of large gloves. He returned to the bed, looking down at Mac. “May I feel?”

Mac nodded, leaning forward a little, but moving his head back ever so slightly to let the doctor inspect and palpate at the same time.

With careful hands, Dr. Kang felt the lump, noting its firmness and dimensions, cataloging its nature in his mind. _A PET scan would do good, help determine which lymph node to excise._ He watched Mac’s face for any pain or discomfort, finding the young man didn’t even flinch.

“You mentioned another lump?”

Mac nodded again as the doctor stepped back. He looked up at Jack and frowned. “Um, Jack?”

“Yeah, Mac?”

“Could you – go into the bathroom for a couple of minutes?”

Jack felt his left eyebrow raise, his body slowly rising from the comfortable position he’d taken against the wall. “I can step out of the room for a minute. I ain’t going into the bathroom though. I need to find the caffeine in this place anyway.” They were exhausted and had intended to get a good long rest in before this detour occurred. Jack rarely drank coffee, but he had a feeling there wouldn’t be much other than piss-poor diluted black bean water in whatever waiting/family room was around. It was a hospital, not the Hilton.

After Jack stepped from the room, Mac said quietly, looking sheepish, “It’s in my left groin. Rubs up against my pants a lot, but I’ve gotten good at ignoring it.”

With careful maneuvering, Mac lying down and getting his pajama pants down without embarrassing himself, Mac let Dr. Kang access his groin, his hands mildly chilly on Mac’s hot skin. He was also vaguely ticklish in his groin area, Mac trying hard to keep a straight face and keep still. Once the lump had been inspected, Dr. Kang grabbed a stethoscope from his left jacket pocket and set about to listen to his patient’s abdominal sounds, lung sounds, and heart sounds. He then carefully palpated Mac’s abdomen, feeling an enlarged spleen in the left upper quadrant. Most of the time, patients took no notice of their spleen, but as the doctor palpated, he was obviously causing mild discomfort.

“Ow,” Mac said softly, realizing he had been holding a breath in while Dr. Kang examined him. He hated that he felt like his mind was on fire, swimming with worst-case scenarios, pain dull in his bones, sharp in his abdomen.

Dr. Kang striped his gloves and tossed them in the trash, applying hand sanitizer from a nearby dispenser before settling back into the folding chair. “Abdominal pain?”

Mac had pushed himself to his knees, eventually crossing his legs once again and settling back against the pillow. “At times. Especially when you pushed in that upper left corner. I get punched more often than I would like, have had far too many bruised and cracked ribs in my lifetime. Never really noticed if it was something else bothering me.”

“Any other pain currently?”

“I – I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, honestly. Just worn down. Achy bones. Headaches. Haven’t gotten a lot of sleep, and when I do sleep, it doesn’t feel restful. Half the time I wake up in a cold sweat, even if I haven’t been dreaming. I honestly just chalked it all up to the job. Overworked, little rest. Seemed straightforward.” Mac paused, eyes drifting away from Dr. Kang’s gaze and landing on a scratch on the top of the bed’s footboard. He didn’t want to ask the next question, but he had to know. Without Jack fretting over the possibilities. “Be honest with me, doc. What do you really suspect?”

There was a beat of silence before Dr. Kang sighed. “I will be straight with you, Mac.” He placed a reassuring hand on Mac’s knee, trying to deliver this news as gently as possible. “I think you have a blood disorder that could potentially kill you. I need to run tests to determine what is going on.”

“You think I have cancer.” If the doctor wouldn’t say it out loud, then Mac would. He wasn’t afraid of the gravity of that word. He’d been only four years old when his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and eventually succumbed to the disease just after Mac’s fifth birthday. As a five-year-old, Mac hadn’t understood why his mom had to leave. Why she had – died. Her death had caused his father to drift away before leaving permanently on Mac’s tenth birthday, leaving Mac to live with his grandfather Harry and learn to fend for himself. Not too long after Mac had met Wilt Bozer and the future looked a lot brighter with his silly best friend by his side.

“The tests I would like to obtain will help me determine the official diagnosis. It could be cancer. It could be an infection. It could be an underlying poison. I will not skirt around the truth, but I cannot honestly give you any speculation at this time.”

“The plan, then?”

A sharp knock came from the door, Jack lifting the blind to show that he had found the anticipated caffeine – piss-poor diluted black bean water, but it would have to do.

Mac held up a hand, waving Jack back into the room.

“Is it safe?” Jack joked, slipping into the room and coming to a stop at the foot of the bed.

Mac wanted to punch him if only he didn’t care so much that Jack was with him and had no intention of leaving. It was comforting. “You don’t have anything better to do?”

“Other than watching over you? Nope.” There was a definite twinkle in Jack’s eyes as he walked back to the recliner and sat, coffee cradled in his hands. “What’s up?”

Dr. Kang cleared his throat, his eyes on his patient and visitor. “As I was about to tell Mac, the plan so far will be a few quick tests this evening and then two major tests in the morning. I’m going to go take a look at your lab results. However, not all of them will have resulted, probably within the next two to three days for the viral panels. Tonight, I want to see how your heart is functioning through an electrocardiogram, and an ultrasound called an echocardiogram. I’m going to put in an order to ultrasound your spleen and x-ray your chest. I want to rule out all causes of your symptoms.

“We’ll keep you hooked up to the fluids because after midnight I will require you to have nothing by mouth for two procedures. The first will be a PET scan – a positron emission tomography scan. This will be in conjunction with a cat scan, to look at the activity of your two lumps, bone marrow, spleen, and any other spots not visible to the naked eye. This scan is painless, but you are required to drink a liter of contrast just before the test.

“After the PET scan, one of my advanced practice providers will sedate you for a bone marrow aspiration and biopsy. This process involves taking a long hollow needle and inserting it into the back of the hipbone, specifically the posterior iliac crest. Due to the pain associated with this procedure, I make it a priority to provide all of my patients with adequate sedation to minimize discomfort. A sample of your marrow and the fluid inside the bone marrow will be extracted and sent for testing. A bone marrow biopsy helps me determine what is happening at the cellular level within your body. The bone marrow is where your body creates your blood – platelets, red blood cells, and white blood cells. If something is wrong, this is where we get to the heart of the abnormality.

“I will have my advanced practice provider also excise, or surgically remove, one, if not both of, your lumps during the procedure to test for confirmation of any possible disease or abnormality. Risks from these procedures include bleeding, pain, infection, slow wound healing, and potential nerve damage. Due to your already heightened risk of bleeding, I will order the nursing staff to infuse donor platelets to keep your platelet count above fifty thousand before the procedure.

“Any questions?”

Jack had too many questions to count on all ten fingers and toes, but he’d kept his mouth shut, letting Mac run the show. When Mac had no further questions, Dr. Kang had gotten a quick rundown of Mac’s physical history, medical history, social history, and family history. The good doc had parted ways, promising to get to the bottom of whatever was plaguing the young Angus MacGyver.

After too many tests to count, two units of platelets, new medications that Jack couldn’t pronounce, and a long phone call with an anxious covert-ops team, Mac had crawled into bed and mumbled he was tired.

That had been an hour ago, Mac’s body shifting in the hospital bed, his breathing even and unlabored in the unfamiliar room.

Rolling onto his side in the recliner, Jack softly sighed. He had missed so many signs of his partner being sick. Really sick. The two were usually intimately in-tune with the other – understanding each other physically, mentally, and emotionally. He had noted that Mac had been struggling with some sort of pain issue over the past couple of weeks, struggling to perform even the most basic of tasks. But his stoic best friend had not said a word, powering through the most grueling of tasks and making things out of _nothing_ without so much as making a pained sound or flinch. Not to mention when Mac had willing walked into harm’s way to gather intel, gaining aches, pains, and bruises. But Jack had missed the signs, the obvious way his partner had grimaced slightly after running a couple of miles or climbing eight flights of stairs. The tells had been there – Jack had just chalked it up to the business of being Angus MacGyver, genius wunderkind.

And now they were spending their first night in an unfamiliar hospital, the concern of _terrible things_ brewing in the background. Mac was scheduled for a scan called a PET scan in the morning, and then a torture test called a bone marrow biopsy and aspiration. The night shift nurse had tried to describe both tests in better detail to Jack, and while they both sounded unpleasant, the bone marrow aspiration involved needles into the hip bones. _Literal torture_. Mac seemed relatively unphased, taking his nighttime pills without fuss and crawling into bed to try to sleep before the next vital signs check. The nursing staff would take away his water after midnight, keeping him nothing by mouth until after both procedures were completed. It wasn’t even technically surgery!

Whatever was coming, Jack would be by Mac’s side through the thick of it all. Hell, or high water – they would survive this beast.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably noted that Mac's birthday isn't correct. While the reboot claims his birthday is March 23rd, I decided to give him back his original birthdate: January 23rd. I chose 1990 because it seemed the most accurate with the show's timeline, even though the writers didn't consult anyone because it's been hinted he was born in 1990 and 1992. Don't shoot the messenger! I also needed him to have that specific birthday for - reasons. *grins*
> 
> I profusely apologize for how long it took to get this chapter out. Writing it was partly painful, and my school work was a beast. Still is - three classes to go. Plus all the other writing prompts swimming around in my head - it's a nightmare!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope almost 6k of words makes up for the long wait. I will try my hardest not to drag out the next chapter! This chapter was not beta-read, so all mistakes, errors, and terrible comedy are from yours truly! (however, I will defend the medical science with my last dying breath!)
> 
> You guys are the best! This is like, my baby, and I'm terrified of how it'll turn out. The life of a writer!
> 
> All comments, kudos, and bookmarks are never expected by always appreciated! *blows kisses*


	4. Work Through the Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in ONE DAY?! Yeah, this chapter just came to me right before I took a nap and then it just flowed. Please have tissues ready - even I cried.

> Friend – one who comes in when the world has gone out.

_(unknown)_

* * *

 

The room was cold. It was meant to keep germs from growing, stabilize the patient’s body temperature during intense surgical procedures, and freeze out all the weak medical students. Okay, the last one was probably not true, but Mac was having a lot of time to think while lying mostly naked (save for a sterile drape covering his backside from neck to sterile booties, a stylish hair cap adorning his blond head) on a surgical gurney in suite A at Ronald Reagan Medical Center.

The weather report on the tv that morning before he was wheeled down to nuclear medicine had said Los Angeles was going to reach a balmy 75 degrees Fahrenheit that beautiful September Thursday. Mac knew he wasn’t going to be enjoying the warm weather anytime soon – the windows in his hospital room didn’t even _open_. Jack had asked about that just that morning while Alex and Madison had been fussing with paperwork for the PET scan.

“Unfortunately, we can’t have the windows open because of the risk for infection for our patient population. Many of the patients undergoing care on this unit have no immune system or severely compromised immune systems. Instead, we have special filters, called HEPA filters, that circulate clean air throughout the unit, providing a space that decreases a patient’s infection risk.”

Sure, the news that the windows didn’t open was grim, but at least the view was killer. Not that Mac noticed much. Too much was going through his mind to really let him appreciate the Los Angeles skyline from a different perspective than his own deck. He had never even made it home before unceremoniously finding himself in an unfamiliar hospital, the future uncertain.

Now he was lying on his stomach in a surgical suite just after noon, a nurse fiddling with his IV line for a moment before stepping away to whisper to a nearby technician. Soon, they would put Mac to sleep, take some of the bone marrow and fluid from his left hip, and entirely remove both lumps, all for testing and delivering an official diagnosis. The word _cancer_ wasn’t far from Mac’s thoughts that morning.

He let out a shaky breath, tucking his right hand under his chin and resting a cheek against his hand. The oxygen tubing wrapped around his ears and the double prongs poking into his nose bugged him, but the nurse had kindly explained he would need it once they administered the sedatives. He generally didn’t like sleeping on his stomach, but the position was how they would access his hip bone. Thankfully, the tray of needles and laboratory slides were behind him, far from his field of vision. He didn’t really want to know how long _that_ needle was that would pierce his backside. Soon after, while he was still out, they’d flip him onto his back for the double lymph node excision. There wouldn’t be any pain during the procedure – Mac had come to appreciate the forward-thinking of Dr. Kang.

His mind drifts, thinking back to earlier that morning. The PET scan itself hadn’t been bad – no pain, just a large donut-hole shaped mechanism. If Mac had to be honest, it looked like a regular cat scan machine, which he had been in too many times to count. But the difference between each scan was the dye used. Instead of having dye injected into his bloodstream, he had to drink a banana flavored dye concoction that he hoped never to have to repeat in his life and sit for sixty minutes in a waiting room. If Jack hadn’t been by his side, distracting him with stupid internet quizzes, Mac would have first vomited from the disgusting taste and gone bored from sitting for so long. Unfortunately, the wait between the ingestion of the dye and the scan was essential to let the dye get into his system.

Right as Mac was called back to the machine, Riley had called. Jack promised he wouldn’t leave the waiting area, settling in for the long haul as Mac let the technician guide him down a hall, past a sign saying in large letters **Caution: Radioactive Material in Use**.

A headache coupled with persistent nausea started to brew once Mac returned to his room, waiting for a transporter to come to take him to his bone marrow biopsy. Alex and Madison, the super nurse team if Mac had ever met any, allowed him a small swallow of water with some Tylenol and a quick IV push of anti-nausea medication. Mac had closed his eyes against the bright lights in his room, willing the drugs to kick in sooner rather than later.

In the middle of his misery, Dr. Kang and a new face stopped by his room. The new face introduced himself as William Darth, Dr. Kang’s physician assistant. William would be the lucky professional to perform both the bone marrow biopsy and the lymph node excisions. It was at that point Dr. Kang said that both swollen lymph nodes looked suspicious and were excellent tissue samples for testing.  

Mac asked about the full results of the PET scan, but Dr. Kang hedged on any real results, reporting that the test would help successfully give Mac a diagnosis when the time came. Mac wanted to call bullshit, but he felt too poorly to defend himself. Dr. Kang reassured him that they would have a clearer picture of what was going on once the bone marrow biopsy and lymph nodes produced results. The earliest any preliminary results would come through was Friday evening into Saturday morning.

They had come for him not too long after, Jack giving him a quick hug and a whispered, “I’ll be here when you get back” before the door slammed shut and the wheelchair was whizzing through unfamiliar hospital corridors.

He comes back to the present when a female voice starts talking to him. “Sweetie, we’re about to give you those sleeping meds. Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Mac mumbled no, closing his eyes against the bright lights being positioned around him. He wished that nosebleed had never happened. That whatever was ailing him would just go away. He didn’t want to do this – he wanted to go _home_. He wanted to go back to _work_.

“Can you state your name and date of birth for us?” This time it was a male voice – one Mac recognized as William Darth from earlier.

Working around the tears threatening to fall, Mac gave them his name and date of birth, the nurse near his head confirming the procedure about to be performed. _Be brave. You didn’t ask for this, but you’re going to do it. For your family. For Jack. Riley. Bozer. Matty. Dad. Extended family. Jill. Charlie. Frankie. Penny. Valerie. Annabelle and her mom. Carlos and his family._

“Okay, sweetie, I want you to start counting backward from ten out loud, okay?”

 Voice somewhat shaky, Mac complied. “Ten…”

His blood work had come back looking gnarly that morning. In less than twenty-four hours, his white blood cells had skyrocketed over ninety thousand, his lymphocytes crowding out the ability of his body to make a balanced number of adequate cells like red blood cells, platelets, and even other types of white blood cells. Even if Dr. Kang wouldn’t say the word _cancer_ , wouldn’t even mention that it could be a malignancy of some kind, Mac had the foreboding premonition it wasn’t going to be a good diagnosis. Infections didn’t usually flare as intensely as his germ-fighting cells were reacting.

“Nine…”

His night shift nurse, Richard, had been required to give him another unit of platelets, trying to boost his count to above fifty thousand for the bone marrow biopsy. The risk of bleeding was too significant, and Mac had already suffered a spontaneous nosebleed when his platelets unexpectedly dropped below ten thousand. While observing the transfusion at four am, Richard had woken Mac up to take a pill. At _four in the morning_. Needless to say, Mac had been a grouch.

“I’m sorry, Mac. With your white blood cell count above ninety thousand, your ability to fight infections has been compromised. We follow an important cell called the neutrophil closely to help determine your risk for infection. You aren’t creating enough neutrophils to fend off infections right now. This count, the absolute neutrophil count, was 867 this morning. I have strict orders from Dr. Kang to give you something called levofloxacin, or Levaquin. It’s an antibiotic that can help prevent certain bacterial infections. I know it’s early, but we’re supposed to give it as soon as we get the neutrophil count.”

“ _Eight…_ ”

With a small sip of water, Mac swallowed the orange pill and two more white pills, rolling over onto his right side, his back turned towards the nurse. He hadn’t been angry – more annoyed than anything else. The protocols on the unit dictated vital signs every four hours, blood draws at midnight, blood products and electrolyte replacements in the early morning hours, a shower every day with a substance called Hibiclens, and so much more. It was only his first night in the hospital, and Mac already wanted to leave against medical advice.

“ _Seven…_ ”

Top it all off, Mac received alarming news that his kidneys might be failing. After that comment, he didn’t get one more wink of sleep. His IV fluids were increased to 200 milliliters per hour, hoping to help clear his kidneys and keep him hydrated while he couldn’t have anything to eat or drink. A lab value of 9.1 filtered through his mind as Richard talked about the signs and symptoms of kidney failure. The 9.1 related to a substance called uric acid, which was the waste product of many physiological functions in the body. Mac couldn’t remember every detail from biology class way back in the day, but he knew that uric acid was excreted by the kidneys – hence urine. If the kidneys failed, the uric acid built up. It could literally kill him. But medical science had come a long way, creating a way to filter out the body’s toxins through dialysis.

The thought of dialysis terrified Mac more than anything. It was intense, draining, and all he could see was a blurry memory of his mom hooked up to a dialysis machine in the last month of her life. That would _never_ be him. NEVER!

“ _Six…_ ”

Bless him, Jack slept the entire time, a snore here and there from his awkward position in the recliner. Mac should have just made the guy go home or take the offered cot, but what good was it now?  

 “ _Five…”_

The drugs swept over him, dragging him into the depths of unconsciousness. The last thought before he blinked out was, _please don’t die, mom_.

* * *

The blinding lights were gone.

Instead, his left hip ached, his right collarbone and left groin throbbed with a pulsating rhythm of hate, and the soft _click click_ of a mechanical pump echoed in his left ear. His right ear picked up on a scuffle of shoes moving, a gentle hand grasping his in a comforting manner.

“Hey, man.”

 _Not Jack_. Mac cracked his eyes open, the overhead lights dimmed, the clock barely a shadow on the wall. The setting sun was casting golden rays across the gray linoleum floor. He’d been out for a while. Slowly taking in his surroundings, Mac deduced that he was in his room, the side rails up, his head heavy on a blue-covered pillow, a friendly face smiling at him from the recliner. _But not – not home_. He was still in the hospital. But the blue pillowcase was _his_. At least – he hoped it was.

"Boze.” His voice cracked from disuse, dry and thick from lack of oral intake for over seventeen hours. His mouth felt like he was back in the Sandbox. The blood pressure cuff began inflating on his left upper arm, a pulse oximeter wrapped tightly around his left index finger. He vaguely remembered them placing that before he’d gone to – to sleep.

Pulling his hand from Bozer’s grasp, Mac reached up with a groan and pulled the oxygen tubing from his nose, moaning at the sudden flare of pain in his hip, his shoulder.

“Mac, bud, I know you’re probably a little disoriented, but you need that.” Warm hands grasped his own before replacing the oxygen tubing. “Let me call the nurse.”

It felt like it came from a distance, a garbled voice asking how they could help from the call light/remote that Bozer was conveniently holding onto.

"Mac’s awake, um, room 6126.”

Whoever was on the other end, thanked the visitor and hung up.

Body in too much pain to move, Mac moved just his eyes, memory trying to catch up with him. _Bone – bone marrow biopsy. Lymph node removal. Drugs. So – so much pain_.

“J-J-Jack. He – he promised –“

Bozer had stood, eyes wide with worry. “It’s okay. Jack will be right back. He had to get away from sitting watching you sleep the day away. Said something about the gift shop. He didn’t leave.”

The rough fabric of hospital sheets was absent from his fingertips as he explored the bed. The blanket wrapped snuggly around him was – not from the hospital. It was – it was his. From his own bed at home. His eyebrows squinted in confusion, wondering when his stuff had magically appeared in his hospital room.

Bozer sensed the confusion before Mac could voice it. “I grabbed some homey touches for you since you had such a rough day. Your own pillow, your favorite blanket. Brought some more pajamas, a couple of t-shirts. I’ll take your dirty clothes home to be washed when I leave. And everyone wanted to send you warm thoughts and feels, so I brought all of that too. Um, the nursing staff wouldn’t let me bring in the two flower bouquets from Matty and Jill. Infection risk, apparently.”

The bedside table was parked to Mac’s left, six different cards, a balloon, and various trinkets spread across the surface. It brought tears to his eyes. He blamed it all on the drugs, but his family – they were too good for him.    

"Matty did leave a box of paperclips – she knows you’ll get bored quickly if you have to be in here for very long. Jill also made an origami crane, with a quote on it. You can look at it later. Um, Riley left her iPad, which is stuffed full of movies, games, and music. Penny gave you the balloon and a teddy bear card. Your dad asked me to bring you a handful of books. I didn’t understand any of the titles. I didn’t bring anything all that special – sorry?” Bozer was frowning, eyebrows pitched forward in thought.

Mac smiled around the tears, willing his voice to work. It came in broken soundbites. “It’s – okay. You brought – me – home.”

Their hands gripped tight, no words needing to be said further.

The moment was ruined by the door opening, and Alex, Madison, and Jack all piling into the room at once.

“Mac, how is your pain?”

“Would you like some water?” Madison held up a plastic cup, a straw sticking out of the lid.

Mac nodded gratefully, taking a few sips before responding to Alex’s question. “Everything aches.”

Alex nodded sympathetically. “Very understandable. We brought a medication called tramadol. It’s stronger than Tylenol, but not as addictive as other narcotics. It should dull the discomfort.”

While the super nurse team logged into the medical record, Jack stepped up beside the bed, a grin plastered on his face. “Mac, you’re awake!”

Mac honestly just wanted to take his meds and go back to sleep, but he smiled up at his partner. “Big guy. You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Jack looked crestfallen. “Sorry, bud. I had to get away from this room for a bit. Sitting here with you sleeping off a drug haze was getting very boring. But,” and his face lit up, the grin back. “I got you something.”

A heavy square object, about three inches by three inches by three inches, landed in Mac’s outstretched left hand. It was brightly colored. And a good mental workout for when Mac wasn’t feeling like death warmed over.

“Rubik's cube,” Mac said it so matter-of-factly, both Bozer and Jack let out a laugh.

There was a momentary distraction from the mind teaser and two giggling fools as Madison handed Mac a medicine cup with the pain medication, followed by a long drink of cold water. The super nurse team wrote down previous vital measurements and released Mac from his blood pressure captivity and nasal cannula. Unfortunately, he had no interest in moving anyway due to his pain.

Bozer and Jack eventually settled down, Mac closing his eyes as Alex and Madison disappeared for changing of the shift. He was too tired to listen to the light banter between his two best friends. They’d understand if he just… took another nap.

Two hours later, Mac awoke to a dark room. The sun had set, his mind was much clearer, and his pain was more of a dull annoyance than stabbing and throbbing him with each muscle movement. He slowly made his way to the bathroom to do his business, ignoring the pestering whispers of Jack.

“Yo, Mac, let me help you.”

He waved his bodyguard away, wrenching open the bathroom door with determination. He wanted to do this on his own, thank you very much. He didn’t say it, but Jack must have understood because he backed off instantly.

By the time Mac made it back to bed, he felt like he had run a full marathon. _When did I get so damn weak?_ He crawled into the bed, burrowing under his blanket, tears creeping back up into the corner of his eyes. There was no way he was crying in front of Jack – but it was no use. Everything was hitting him all at once.

He didn’t mean for the sob to escape, but breathing had started to feel almost impossible, his chest squeezing tight. _Just a panic attack. It’s okay. Listen to that voice of reason_.

A comforting hand started rubbing his arm, whispering sweet nothings.

“I’m right here. I’m not leaving. You know you can always talk to me. I got you, Mac. I got you.”

It took a moment, but Mac let the panic pass, another sob escaping. He didn’t really believe in a god or some higher power, but _fuck_ , he was _scared_. “I’m scared, Jack.” It was barely a whisper. Mac wasn’t sure Jack heard it, from the silence that followed.

A beat of silence longer, and then an audible sniff. “I know. I’m – I’m scared too, bud. But no matter what happens, I will never leave your side. Don’t you ever forget that. You can tell me anything. Don’t – don’t be afraid to cry, okay?” Jack gave his best friend a reassuring squeeze. They would traverse this rocky future together, no matter what.

It was like the dam broke, and both men found it acceptable to cry. Even though Mac was hidden by the blankets and Jack was stuck leaning over the bedside railing, the tears flowed that night, so much unknown, and so much to hold onto.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta-read. I ran it through Grammarly after reading it three times?! But all mistakes, errors, and whatnot are my fault!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! 
> 
> All comments, kudos, and bookmarks are never expected, but truly appreciated! Please feel free to leave even a sobbing angry comment - I'll take anything!


	5. Problem... Not Solved?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings include Drugged!Mac, sappy family moments, Cranky!Mac, and official diagnosis. Be ready with tissues!

> If you love me, don't let go / If you love me, don't let go / Hold / Hold on / Hold on to me / 'Cause I'm a little unsteady / A little unsteady

_(Unsteady by X Ambassadors)_

* * *

 

Mac had always _tried_ to be private about his health. He was a very stoic individual – hiding the pain, pushing it away, ignoring it until the last possible moment. There were times when he should never have put anyone before his own injury, but that wasn’t him. Constantly looking out for others but ignoring his own wellbeing. Too many times, Mac had ended up in a hospital bed in critical condition because he had made sure everyone else was safe and uninjured. Sometimes the damage would have been even less had he followed the mantra ‘secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others.’

Riley Davis wasn’t sure what applied in this instance. After hearing the nose bleed had led to Mac’s sudden admission to UCLA Medical Center, she had started researching causes for nose bleeds. Her search came up with nothing all that substantial. Nose bleeds happened. Mac had encountered a hostile situation while in Ukraine and came away with too many bruises to count. But she had no idea if the Ukrainian terrorists had caused the nose bleed and subsequent problems, or something else entirely. Unfortunately, she had yet to find time to come to the hospital – even though Mac had explicitly told everyone not to worry and he would be out in a matter of hours, if not a couple of days.

It was day three of his hospital stay and no word from either Mac or Jack about how Mac was doing. Knowing that the hospital was boring and absolute dread, she had made up her mind that early Friday morning to visit her brother in the hospital and bring him some entertainment. Hidden in her backpack was not just her laptop, but also the card game Uno (a favorite on the Phoenix jet), a travel sized version of monopoly, and one of Mac’s favorite brain teasers – Scrabble. Maybe during a heated game of Uno, she could wheedle out of both Mac and Jack what the hell was going on.

She’d only been with the team for about two years, but in that time had created an everlasting family. The first few months had been rocky at best, considering some of the things she had done to con Jack and Mac into telling her as much of their background as possible. Oh, she had gotten into their files and snooped, but the records only told half the story. While she never did get the full story on Cairo, she found out far more devastating information about both her surrogate father and surrogate brother. Riley had hacked their medical files, reading up on much of the injuries occurred over only a few years of spy work. Concussions, broken bones, cuts and burns, blindness, the threat of sexual assault, torture beyond imagination, gunshots and knife wounds, just to name a few things. And more than two-thirds of the time, Mac played his injuries off as tolerable or insignificant. Finding this out had made Riley _furious_.

Stepping onto the hematology ward at UCLA Medical Center, Riley had the foreboding feeling that this wasn’t a typical illness. Mac always had his care at the Phoenix infirmary or Medical. And even though he had said he didn’t want visitors, Riley wasn’t going to listen to him. In the very back of her mind, she knew something was wrong – very wrong.

Already knowing the room number, Riley weaved herself around equipment and medical staff making early rounds, eyes peeled for room 6126. It was just after seven in the morning, and while she probably should have come later in the day, she had the desire to stop by before heading to the Phoenix Foundation to work in the lab. No missions with their leader stuck in a hospital bed, the gun-toting partner at his side twenty-four seven. And any missions that happened to come up that fit Riley and Bozer’s specific skillsets could be accomplished from Phoenix HQ, even for remote operations.

Rounding a corner, Riley smiled as she finally eyed room 6126 and tactical team member Jason Ronan. He was relatively new to the team but had a level head on him. It helped in complicated situations. He spotted her as she came up to the door, a teasing smile on his own lips.

“Ms. Davis.”

She shook her head, chuckling, letting her backpack slide off her shoulder to the ground. “Riley. You know you can call me Riley. How’s –“ Her eyes turned to the door, about to nod towards it when she saw the glaring red stop sign right above the door latch. **STOP! Sterile procedure in progress. NO ENTRY UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY**.

Her eyebrows tilted inward minutely, a frown tugging at her lips. “What’s going on in there?” _It’s seven am!_

Jason shrugged. “Something important. I’m just here to make sure no one tries to get in and take him out.”

“Is Jack in there?”

“No,” Jason replied, shaking his head. “The medical staff kicked him out. Last I knew he was in the family room just down the hall. He told me to continue my post.”

Riley’s face didn’t relax, but she nodded, picking up her backpack and turning around. She found the family room five doors down on the left, a wide-open space with chairs, a couple of tables, two in-progress puzzles, a shelf of books and magazines, two exercise bikes, and tv on mute. She also found her trusted confidante – Jack.

Bright picture windows were showcasing the famous Los Angeles skyline, the sun starting to cast shadows from the nearby furniture. Jack stood at the far right window, back turned to the hall, face hidden by sunlight. He seemed to be deep in thought as Riley came up behind him, an untouched cup of black coffee gripped tightly in his left hand. He didn’t even acknowledge her presence.

Setting the backpack on a nearby chair, Riley swallowed thickly. “Hey.” It was a whisper, meant to keep him from startling. His head turned towards her, a look of pain briefly passing over his facial features before he contained the moment of weakness.

“Little early to be paying a visit, don’t ya think?” His eyes looked tired, withdrawn – worried. She could read him like a book, but getting him to talk wasn’t going to be easy.

Riley shrugged nonchalantly. “I was up. Felt like making use of my time. I’m not just here for you, though.”

The snort had no mirth to it. No _emotion_. Except – except a hint of held back anguish and worry. Riley needed to get to the bottom of Jack’s anxiety _fast_.

“I stopped by Mac’s room. Jason said they kicked you out for something. The sign said something about a sterile procedure. Anything I should know about?”

Jack’s focus was back outside, eyes staring at the awakening city of Los Angeles. He shrugged, left shoulder lifting and falling without a word. After a moment, he finally gave her the information she sought.

“They're placing a couple of – of lines. I – I don’t really understand it all. There was a lot going on in there this morning.” The slight tremble in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. Riley gently put a hand to Jack’s back, silently guiding him to a nearby seat. She was quietly biting her lip, worry gnawing at her stomach. _What is going on? What’s wrong with Mac?_

“What’s going on, Jack?”

He sighed, running a hand over his stubble.

“It was such – such chaos. He woke up struggling to breathe, headache, blurred vision – I thought the room was gonna burst at the seams with all the people in there. Oxygen, a chest x-ray, and – well, apparently, he has a mass in his chest.”

Her mouth went dry. _Mass._

“So many words I didn’t understand, all being spoken at once. Something about his lungs being clogged, but it wasn’t directly related to the mass; _I don’t know_.” There was desperation in his voice. Jack had been processing the entire early morning in his mind, trying to understand it all. But he couldn’t. Mac was just so – so _sick_.

“Mac’s really sick, Ri.”

Riley started rubbing small circles into his back, her brain categorizing all the information Jack was trying to relay.

“Sounds like the mass didn’t grow. It’s his blood that’s the problem. Too many – too many white blood cells. His kidneys –“ Jack paused, Dr. Kang’s words echoing in his mind. _Watch his intake and output closely. Check labs every six hours. Give a dose of rasburicase. I think his kidneys are taking a hit. Call in cellular therapeutics._

“Jack?”

He shook his head, coming back to the present. “S-S-Sorry.”          

Riley twisted a thread on her jean pant leg. “Jack, do I need to call everyone?”

Jack shook his head, adamantly. “He doesn’t want that. Not until – until we get some answers. I don’t know how this is going to play out. I just – I can’t help but think I _missed_ something. What if – what if this isn’t poisoning? What if it’s something much worse? What if it’s something we could have prevented? What if his stint with the Ukrainian terrorists got him sick? I don’t know what I’ll do if it comes to that conclusion. It doesn’t sound like an infection, it’s too – critical.”

 _Worse than poisoning?_ She wrapped her arms around her surrogate father, hugging him hard. Comforting words to appease his guilt. “This isn’t your fault, Jack. Mac has to be the one in control of his health.”

“But I know my partner, Riley.” He broke the hug, a stray tear in his eye. “I can tell when something is wrong. And I didn’t think anything was wrong before – before _now_!”

The bruising had been all a part of the job. A nosebleed could happen to anyone. The small aches and pains could have been attributed to too much running or too much time spent on his feet. Except – Mac never mentioned the damn lumps. And stoic, brave Angus MacGyver was now in a hospital bed, fighting for his life. _But from what?!_

Riley wanted to console him. She was desperate to fix what burdened Jack’s thoughts that morning. But she didn’t know the _half_ of it, and she knew it all had to do with Mac. And until she saw Mac with her own two eyes, she couldn’t presume a thing about her family and their emotional wellbeing.

They were saved by a light knock on a nearby wall. “Mr. Dalton?”

Jack looked up, eyeing one of the nurses who had been in the room that morning. He knew shift change was occurring – she must be ready to get home, get some sleep. He understood long nights and awkward sleep during the day hours.

“Yeah?” His voice was rugged from the almost-crying, and the emotion buried deep inside. But he needed to be strong – for Mac, for Riley, for the team.

The nurse smiled. “Mac’s asking for you. The medical staff has finished with their sterile work, and they’ll be setting up for the next procedure in the next hour. You can stay in the room, though it’ll get crowded quick.”

Jack nodded, thanking her for the update.

Riley hugged him briefly one last time, whispering, “I’m here for anything, okay?”

His gaze was back out the window, a look of exhaustion evading his mixing emotions and thoughts. “I know.”

A few moments later, the two got up, backpack in one hand, a fresh cup of coffee in another, their free hands gripping tight.

Jason greeted them as they approached, not commenting on Jack’s pale facial expression or Riley’s worrying lip. But both were trained government agents (well, Jack more so), and they managed to school their emotions before stepping into the room.

Riley softly knocked, the door opening at Jack’s push. As Jack moved back to his seat in the recliner, soft voice speaking something, Riley took in the room – drab white walls, sterile white tile, and the epitome of hospital unpleasantness. She moved to the far side of the room, her backpack dropping onto the small table in the corner by the window, her hands gripping a chair as she dragged it to the bedside.

The figure in the bed was curled on his right, a nasal cannula tucked into his nostrils, blond hair frazzled in all directions. An orange tint – _iodine_ – trailed from Mac’s left ear to his elbow, circling his entire left upper arm. He was shirtless, a starchy white sheet pulled up to mid-rift. Two lines were exposed, with one thin tube and three extensions extending from the inside of Mac’s arm, two of the extensions infusing fluids and blood. The second line protruded from the crook of his neck, two big tubes dangling precariously, a transparent dressing covering the insertion site. It was capped – not in use.

But the lines couldn’t distract from Mac’s clouded eyes – a mixture of pain, weariness, and fear hidden by a drugged smile.

“Hey, Ri.”

She heard the weakness. It was so unlike Mac. Something was definitely _wrong_. _Oh, Mac_. She reached for his outstretched fingers, squeezing them gently.

“You look worse for wear.”

He managed a small laugh as his eyes closed involuntarily. “They – uh – gave me a sedative. Too anxious.” He pried his eyes open, remembering. He’d been hyperventilating, his fingers and toes a strange shade of blue from oxygen deprivation. There had been a mask and then something warm in his hand from the IV line. Dr. Kang had been talking as they prepped Mac’s left arm for a peripherally inserted central catheter and his neck for an internal jugular line. “Not doing so hot.” Soft words slurred by the current effects of the medication.

Riley gripped his hand tighter. “Well,” she said with far more bravado than she thought possible. “You’re just gonna have to get better quick. Because I brought Scrabble, Monopoly, and Uno.”

“She brought Uno,” Jack murmured as he leaned forward in the recliner, fingers gently brushing a few strands of hair away from Mac’s eyes. Jack’s demeanor was surprisingly strong – not one ounce of the fear and pain from earlier. “You’re gonna have to kick her ass this next round.” Uno was a favorite party game for the group – Riley won every round. Some swore Uno broke friendships, but Riley just gloated and then moved onto Mac’s prized game – Scrabble.

Mac hummed in agreement, a frown appearing as the hum turned into a moan. He shifted restlessly in the bed, eyes squeezing tightly shut.

“Bud, you in pain?” Panic spiked in Jack’s brain. Mac hadn’t shown any signs of pain before – not even with all the bruises and the exhaustion from the op.

His partner nodded, the IJ tubes clacking in his ear. Distress was etched into his furrowed brow, and through clenched teeth, he spoke. “All my bones hurt.”

Riley released her tight grip, hands back in her lap almost instantly. “I’m so sorry, I –“

Mac shook his head, eyes closing involuntarily once again. “Not – not your fault. Please, d-d-don’t leave.” He fell silent, breathing a little ragged, even with the oxygen.

Jack swallowed hard, just watching his brother breathe – in and out; in and out; in and out.

Unfortunately, a cell phone decided that moment to start incessantly ringing. Jack murmured apologies as he reached into a nearby bag and grabbed his blaring phone. Glancing at the number, he sighed.

“Gotta take this, sorry guys.”

Riley let Jack leave, her chair scooching closer to the head of the bed. “I’ll stay with Mac.”

The sound and his name roused Mac briefly, his eyes half-lidded.  

Jack looked conflicted, but the phone wouldn’t shut up, and the call was urgent. He nodded, finally stepping out of the room as he answered the caller.

Riley rubbed Mac’s hand, his body relaxing back into sleep. She’d stay for as long as Mac let her. There was nowhere else she needed to be – Matty would understand. No dire projects were needing to be completed at the Phoenix. She could take the day and spend it with Mac and Jack. Mac needed the companionship more than ever – at least, that’s what Riley reasoned as the pit deep in her stomach grew with each passing moment, each event that seemed to signify Mac was doing poorly.

Her eyes wandered around the room as Mac slept off the sedative. There was a large patient update board hanging on the bathroom door, Mac’s name, the date, activity status, and more filled in. The goals for the day were written in a brilliant red. _Walk in the hall; Leukapheresis 1/?; Shower; Labs Q6 – 1200, 1800, 0000, 0600; Get bmbx and lymph biopsy results_. Each goal had a box, but none of them were marked off. There were also too many acronyms she didn’t understand – but she had the feeling Mac could decipher them without blinking.

He was a real-life genius. But he was also kind, funny, and generous. He unreservedly believed there was always a solution, disproving the idea that there were no-win scenarios. He loved unconditionally and gave everything to make sure his family came home safe and sound. It is what made him a brilliant spy.

Riley worried that whatever was ailing him was going to sideline him from the field for weeks, if not months. And if there was one thing you couldn’t keep Angus MacGyver from doing, it was going out into the world and making a difference. Not a force in the world could stop him from staying active, creatively solving unconventional problems. But what if this could? _What if?_

* * *

Jack walked a few steps behind Mac, their footsteps in sync as Mac trudged himself down the hallway. He had only completed two laps around the entire 6East unit, and yet he was exhausted. His blood work looked markedly better from midnight, with his electrolytes stabilizing after starting new IV fluids with sodium bicarb, his kidneys looking only ‘mildly’ injured now, per the nursing staff. His white blood cells came down from 123,000 to 86,000 after just one leukapheresis treatment. That alone had been quite the procedure – cycling out the white cells from all the other cells. Fascinating didn’t even begin to describe it, even if Mac had been still under the influence of a hefty dose of lorazepam from the line insertions.

The morning had been a whirlwind. After having both a peripherally inserted central catheter (PICC) and internal jugular (IJ) line placed, getting a unit of platelets and blood, and continuing to have metabolic respiratory distress, Mac had zonked out to fight all the changes going on in his body. Riley visited and stayed for much of the morning, talking and laughing about random shit with Jack as the leukapheresis machine did its job. Unfortunately, she had been called back to the Phoenix shortly before the procedure completed, her smile sad as she left, the three games sitting unplayed on the table.  

After the procedure finished, two hours beginning to end, more lab work was drawn, the second unit of blood was administered, and the clock inched towards noon. Mac fell asleep, again, before finally waking up ninety minutes later and feeling more human. Except he woke up cranky, telling Jack to shut it with the jokes about blood, gore, and the zombie apocalypse.

The day shift nurse, Cora, helped him get prepped for a shower, both lines in his left arm and neck requiring covering to keep dry. The peripheral IV had been removed shortly after confirmation that his two central lines were in the right place and ready to use. They could draw blood and give blood and fluids through the PICC line, while the IJ was reserved for the leukapheresis procedure. Dr. Kang hadn’t been sure if one or two sessions would be necessary, so the line would glare out of the side of Mac’s neck for at least another twenty-four hours.

He didn’t look much worse than the other few patients doing laps that afternoon on the floor. Mac didn’t really want to talk to any of them, but his eyes might have stared for too long at a couple of individuals. Bald, splotchy skin, and tired eyes. Their IV poles were decorated, orange ribbons on one, green ribbons on another.

Finishing a third lap, energy waning, Mac went back to his room, teeth worrying his lips as he sat on the bed after plugging back in his pump and reconnecting the telemetry wires. Sometime during his morning adventure, Dr. Kang had ordered continuous telemetry – five patches in strategic places on his chest, five wires tangling in his bathrobe as they delivered an electronic picture of his heartbeat to the vital sign machine. Something about how when the electrolytes got too high or too low could create extra beats or even mess up the abilities heart to beat properly, with the potential to be lethal. Mac hadn’t argued, his focus on his breathing and the massive headache brewing. It had been a stressful morning.

Jack looked up from his phone as he entered the room, the door slipping shut behind him. His eyes narrowed in on Mac’s racing thoughts, attention dragged from technology.

“Okay, bud, spill. What are you thinking about?”

The kid swung his legs up onto the bed, head dropping onto the pillow, a sigh escaping. “Just about this morning. Nothing all that exciting, Jack. I’m fine.”

 _Now that’s a bunch of bullshit if I’ve ever heard it!_ But the older man didn’t press the issue as he sat back in the recliner, a yawn escaping. “I think I’ll ask for the cot tonight. This thing is – uncomfortable.”

It made Mac laugh, his head shaking at Jack’s pained expression. But it was no secret the recliner was uncomfortable – Jack had been sleeping it in for two nights and sitting in it for even longer days, never leaving Mac’s side unless the medical staff demanded it. A body could only handle so much discomfort in the long run.

They were quiet for a moment, Mac taking a moment to just breathe. Cora had let him take off the oxygen after his oxygen saturation improved post-leukapheresis procedure. He still felt short of breath at times, especially when walking anywhere – the bathroom, in the hall, around the room. But it was better than lugging an oxygen tank around with him everywhere.

He saw the three games sitting on the table, and an idea came to him. “Hey, Jack. I bet I could beat you at Uno.”

The older man had a game face on instantly. “Oh, you are so on, man. Be prepared to choke on those words.”

* * *

The deck had been laid, the cards distributed.

“Will you just play your turn already?”

“He’s scared.”

Shining, mischievous blue eyes flickered upwards, piercing into Riley’s soul. But he said nothing, eyes back on his two cards. He wanted to make the right move. But the odds were stacked against him. Every Uno game in the past two years had been won by Riley, full stop. She always kept a draw four hidden until her very last chance, catching all other players off guard. And somehow, they all _always_ fucking fell for it. This wasn’t the first time Mac had ended up with two cards in his hand, his voice ready to yell ‘Uno!’ until his next turn would be crushed by Riley. _Not today. I will win._

“He has every right to be scared. But it shouldn’t take him ten minutes to make a move! Or I’m going to put a damn time limit on your turn, Mac!”

Mac let out a sigh, rolling his eyes as he played a blue seven. “Uno! Happy, Jack?”

Jack scowled, face scrunched up in defeat. He still had eight cards in his hand, and none of them were blue, none of them were sevens, and none of them were color changes. _The fucking odds with this game_.

Thankfully, it was now Bozer’s turn, and he played much quicker, making Jack draw two and skip his turn, passing on the play to Penny. To say Jack was even more irate was beside the point.

Riley laughed, her own hand of five cards held gracefully in her fingers. Inside, she was the one scared. This time she didn’t have any way to make Mac take more cards – not to mention, two other players were between him and her. And since she had no idea what his last card held, it meant she could only guess if he were about to win against her – for the first time in literally _ever_.

Except, she had also been intentional in using her draw four card earlier in the game because she wanted to make Mac feel better. He was stuck in the hospital, no timeline on when he was getting out. She was super glad he was feeling better – seeing him vulnerable had been hard for Riley. He was the glue that held the entire family together. His vulnerability was never so prominent, but drugs had a way of dulling the senses and masking a person’s ability to hide their emotions.

So, there they were, the gang all back together for one evening. Riley had convinced everyone (Bozer, Matty, Jill, Penny Parker, and James MacGyver) to come and visit Mac in the hospital, bombarding the genius spy with more games, a Star Wars balloon from Matty, and two silly cards that played the Star Wars theme and a Taylor Swift song. The high stack of games was intimidating. Uno, Monopoly, Scrabble, Yahtzee from Jill, card games from Jack, Penny, and Bozer, which included an actual deck of cards, Phase 10, and Skip-Bo, while Jim had brought a brand-new chess board.

It was chill in the room; except maybe for the intense game of Uno going on. Matty and Jim were sitting at the small table in the corner, discussing whatever _adults_ liked to discuss. The rest of the gang played Uno, Mac sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed, Riley mirroring his pose at the end of the bed, Jack, Penny, Jill, and Bozer sitting in chairs at either side of the bed. The game was spread out across the fitted sheet, two draw decks balanced precariously on the lumpy mattress, a gigantic pile of discarded cards in the very middle. Riley had brought two versions of the game, mixing up the cards for a more massive deck and double the fun. Except they all knew Uno broke friendships. And made Jack a grumpy pants.

Riley glanced down at her cards, wondering which one to play. But she didn’t get the chance, a sharp knock on the hospital room door announcing someone’s presence at eight that Friday night. The on-coming nurse, Lacey, had already said hi, Cora telling Mac she’d be back in the morning. And since Lacey had seen the large group of visitors in the room, with no one else coming, the door knock was completely unexpected.

Every head turned, but it was Mac who spoke first. “Come in!”

A familiar face peered through the blinds before eventually stepping into the room. Dr. Kang looked – for lack of a better word, exhausted. He had been on-call the night before, managing MacGyver’s emergent situation before seeing patients in the clinic and rounding on other patients on the unit. He should have gone home a couple of hours ago, but that was before the pathologist called him with unsuspecting news.

But there was something else in his facial expression, one of held-back grief that had been forced into hiding one too many times when bad news must be delivered. Dr. Kang looked around the room, momentarily surprised at all the visitors.

“Quite the party going on, Mac.”

“My family.”

Of course, Dr. Kang knew that Mac had only his father as living biological family. Family was not merely biological, but it is also what each person made of a group of trusted confidantes and close-knit relationships. In this case, family was meant more as a way to express devotion to specific individuals, regardless of biological connection.

“I know you have had a lot going on the past few days. I do have news, but I need to know if you would like to hear it in private or if you are okay with your family listening in.”

The truth would come out at one point. It didn’t matter if it was now or tomorrow or a week from then. Everyone in that room would hear, whether it was good news – or bad news. Mac couldn’t keep this from them. Better to rip the band-aid off quickly.

“They can know what you have to say, Dr. Kang.” The Uno game forgotten, Mac put his single card on the bed, throat swallowing instinctively, eyes never leaving his physician.

Penny and Jill gave each other glances before getting up and moving away from the bedside, leaving a spot for Dr. Kang to come up beside his patient. Riley climbed off the bed, her stance protective behind Bozer’s seat. She didn’t like where this conversation was headed.

Dr. Kang quietly thanked the two ladies, his body sinking into one of the chairs. He took a calming breath, focus entirely on Mac.

“Between the results of your PET scan, your bone marrow biopsy, the two lymph node biopsies, and your worrying blood work, I have unfortunate news. Talking with the pathologist this evening, we agreed that you have a rare form of lymphoma. It has a confusing name, and we haven’t had the greatest success in long-term survival. You have a blood cancer called anaplastic diffuse large B-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma.”

Each word hung heavy in the air. Mac instinctively swallowed again, the words echoing in his mind. _Blood cancer. Lymphoma. Anaplastic diffuse large B-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma. I – I –_

“Unfortunately, your stage is also a concern. While most blood cancers do not have an assigned stage, due to the nature of the disease, lymphoma is different. We consider disease above and below the diaphragm, along with extranodal involvement. You came in with two lumps, one above and one below the diaphragm, signifying an advanced stage, stage III. Your PET scan also showed a small mass in the middle of your chest, which is common with lymphoma. However, your spleen and bone marrow are also impacted, the bone marrow turning out immature and mature B-cells rapidly, triggering your body to not create platelets or red blood cells in balance with your physiological needs. The spleen is overpowered by the influx of malfunctioning cells, causing it to grow too large to work properly. Due to your current condition, I regret that I must initially diagnose you at stage IV.”

Shell-shocked would aptly explain every facial expression in that room at that exact moment. Jill and Penny were stunned silent, Matty looked regretful, Jim couldn’t take his eyes off his son, their relationship still figuring itself out, while Riley immediately started to cry, Bozer coming to her rescue and leading her out of the room, holding her tight. As for Jack, he sat at the edge of the recliner, knees balanced precariously on his knees, chin resting on folded hands. He took the news without a single change in expression, his breathing even and steady. He was a trained government agent – he could fool even the best.

Mac looked down at the discarded Uno game, wondering when his life had literally turned upside down. Was it when he found out his father was his boss, making decisions in his life without actively being a part of the life Mac had lived? Was it when he quit the Phoenix Foundation, aimlessly wandering the United States in search of something that defined _him_ , and not the life his father had designed for him. Was it when he came back to the Phoenix Foundation two months later, telling his father that while he still didn’t trust him, they could try to work on the broken strands of whatever life they were destined to achieve as father and son? Was it when he first noticed the lumps? Was it when he started seeing more bruising than was usual for his job? Was it when he allowed himself to be willingly taken by terrorists and tortured? Or was it when his nose started to bleed without warning, a strange phenomenon that could not be explained – until now?

Dr. Kang was quiet, waiting for Mac to respond.

After a few heartbeats, Mac looked back up at his physician, determination on his face. “That’s the bad news. What are we going to do about it?”

“The first and best line of defense is a combination of chemotherapy and immunotherapy. Specifically, an immunotherapy called biotherapy, targeted at specific parts of your immune system, mainly the cancer, helping to destroy and prevent continued growth. While I still need to work on a defined treatment plan, most rare lymphomas are best treated with a protocol called CHOP. CHOP stands for cyclophosphamide, doxorubicin, vincristine, and prednisone. The first three are chemotherapy drugs, while prednisone is a steroid. Because more than half of your cancer cells are expressing an antigen we call CD20, I want to also give you a biotherapy called Rituximab. But because about thirty percent of your cancer cells are expressing another antigen we call CD30, I want to add Etoposide, also a chemotherapy drug, to your treatment regimen. The name of this regimen is R-EPOCH. These would be lengthy treatments with many cycles, all dependent on how your cancer responds.

"And I cannot delay treatment any longer, considering the invasive nature of your cancer and the multiplication of your malfunctioning immune system. Tomorrow morning, I will perform a procedure called a lumbar puncture to test for cancer cells in your central nervous system and give you another chemotherapy drug called methotrexate to kill off any cancer and prevent spread into your spinal fluid and brain. After that, we will determine if you require another leukapheresis procedure, and then get your chemotherapy started.”

 _At least we have a plan. I never have any plans_. Mac slowly nodded. “When – when can I get out of the hospital?”

Dr. Kang put a hand on Mac’s shoulder, mindful of the IJ. “You are at high risk of complications, especially once we start treatment. I can’t give you a timeline, but I’d prepare for at least a month.”

Jack stood, fear in his eyes. “A month?!” He was almost yelling, anger in his voice. “You expect him to stay in the hospital for a _month_?! What about his job?! What about his life?! You don’t know what he’s got going on in the next month –”

Matty, all but half of Jack’s size, was up on her feet, her boss face on as she interrupted his rant. “Jack, calm down. This isn’t the first time Dr. Kang has had to break bad news. If he says Mac needs to be in the hospital for a month, then it is going to happen.”

 _A month. Fuck_. Mac absently started to wring his hands, his thoughts going a mile a minute. He couldn’t – he couldn’t _think_. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to do. All he heard was noise surrounding him, Jack and Matty arguing as Jill and Penny disappeared from the room.

The only one not in upheaval was his father, sitting quietly in the corner, head tilted in contemplation of the situation. Mac was not only his son but one of his field agents. The best field agent at the Phoenix Foundation. A great talent lost to the world of medicine and an uncertain future.

But there was another thought in Jim’s mind. He had lost his beloved wife to the same dreadful disease. Would he also lose his son, after only just learning to reconnect? Had he wasted too much of their lives staying hidden, playing god? Would this drive them further apart?

“Mac.” A voice penetrated the fog in Mac’s mind, Dr. Kang trying to grab his attention once more. He looked up, taking a deep breath. It reluctantly hurt.

“I know this is a lot to take in at once. I want to get your orders in, so you can start treatment in the morning. Before I leave, can I answer any questions?”

 _What questions should I be asking? Am I going to die? He said – they had difficulty with long-term survival for this disease. I’m not going to be some fucking statistic. I have to fight every minute of every day. I will not let this cancer win. But I don’t know – I don’t know what to ask. I don’t know what to_ do.

Mac shook his head, quietly thanking Dr. Kang for finally finding him concrete answers. Mac almost wanted to laugh – now that everyone knew, they would be googling treatment options and clinical trials to find him a cure. And it was going to drive Mac _nuts_. But they were his family. And they cared. Even the yelling between Jack and Matty was utterly expected. _I’m sorry, guys. I’m so sorry._

Dr. Kang left, leaving Mac to his thoughts. But Matty and Jack were invading them, their bickering too much.

“Will you two shut up? Better yet, leave. Please leave.”

Jack turned away from Matty, eyes wide in confusion and fear. “Mac –“

“I just want to be alone. Come back – come back tomorrow or something. But I don’t want to hear your bickering or your apologies right now. I can’t do it.”

Matty reluctantly nodded, acquiescing to his request. She stepped up to the bed, squeezing his clasped hands. "I'll tell Penny, Jill, Riley, and Bozer. They can text you, okay?"

Mac nodded, already regretting his decision to kick everyone out. But he wanted to be alone. 

Matty quietly left, leaving Jack standing in the middle of the room, crestfallen.

Jack looked particularly wounded, unsure if he should leave or stay. Mac wasn’t in his right mind – no one was after being told they had cancer and wouldn’t be able to leave the hospital for _a month_. But if Mac wanted to be alone – he wanted to be alone. It was rare, it was definitely unusual and out of character. But Jack had to give his brother the space he asked for, even if he didn’t approve. Mac needed all the support they could provide – being alone just felt wrong.

He gathered up his stuff, glancing back at Mac’s form from the door, his brother’s form so small in the bed. The Uno game left unplayed on the bedsheets, Mac having curled into himself, face turned away from the door.

 _Okay, Mac. But mark my words, I’ll be back in the morning. You aren’t going through this alone. You’ll never be alone_.

The last person left was Jim, still sitting quietly at the table, watching his son process the recent turn of events with a brave face. He knew he needed to leave, but he wasn’t sure how.

Even with his eyes closed, Mac still knew who was left. “I’m sorry, dad.” He was whispering, holding back the tears that were destined to fall. “I know this messes up the Phoenix, and I can’t blame you for probably being really angry right now. All I can think about is – is mom.” He paused, a lump in his throat. _God, mom._

James MacGyver stood, crossing the empty space between table and bed, kneeling at his son’s side. He didn’t say anything, just took Mac’s hands in his and held them. No words – just _them_.

Finally, his father spoke. “Rest. Everything will work out. And don’t worry about the Phoenix – it’ll still be there when you return.” He stood, brushing a hand through his son’s hair, before eventually gathering his jacket and slipping from the room.

Mac felt tears track down his cheeks, fear wrapping around his heart. _I’m terrified. Cancer – god, cancer. How – how…_

It would be the first, and only, night Mac would spend alone in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While still being a fictional piece of work, I have spent a lot of time that I should have been doing school and researching the very specific type of cancer I wanted to give Mac. However, if you were to google the exact diagnosis, you would find results that point to three different cancers: diffuse large B-cell lymphoma, lymphoblastic lymphoma, and anaplastic large cell lymphoma. Essentially, I took all three and mashed them together. So, if you are expecting a coherent treatment plan, don't ;) I researched that extensively too, plus I'm an oncology nurse, but it'll get its own flavor as the story progresses. Sources include lymphoma.org, Hematologic Malignancies in Adults, and Chemotherapy and Biotherapy Guidelines.
> 
> And I know sometimes cancer fics are dumb, terribly written, and just plain sad - and if you aren't willing to read past this chapter, I understand. I hope you'll continue to follow along - there is much more planned than 'just a cancer fic' - a lot more!
> 
> Thank you for coming on this journey with me. I keep saying this, but it'll be a while before the next chapter. I really have to finish school *cries* It's a complicated mess. I'd rather write this than three more papers and one giant capstone. 
> 
> All errors, grammar mistakes, and tense issues (the bane of my existence) are entirely my fault.
> 
> Thank you kindly for reading. Any comments, kudos, bookmarks, follows, etc. are unexpected, but truly appreciated and make my day. Love, Danielle.
> 
> PS: if you think of something I should add to the tags, please feel free to suggest! I want to be honest but also intriguing. Thanks!


	6. When Reality Hits

> _Anaplastic Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoblastic Lymphoma_ (ADLBCLL) is a rare type of aggressive non-Hodgkin lymphoma (NHL), where multiple diagnostic indicators point to numerous different types of lymphoma in different parts of the body, with the bone marrow involved in more than half of all diagnosed cases. ADLBCLL is frequently diagnosed at advanced stages and challenging to treat due to the revolving diagnostic changes and genetic abnormalities. It mainly affects people under the age of 30.

_(author Benedicthiddleston)_

* * *

 Restlessness plagued him the entire night. Between every four-hour vitals, medications, and fluids, blood draws, and an untimely fever of 101.4 Fahrenheit, which incurred two blood cultures, intravenous antibiotics, and a lab poke, Mac got little sleep. As if the distractions and interruptions in his cat naps from the medical staff were bad enough, his body _ached_. Head to toe. It was like a vice was squeezing every major bone in his body.

If his cell phone hadn’t been plugged in all night, it would have been dead from the constant usage. Mac couldn’t get the words _anaplastic diffuse large b-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma_ out of his head. Whatever dreams he might have had would have been infiltrated by white blood cells and sneering faces. He didn’t really have any feelings one way or another about clowns, but he imagined clowns would be involved. Every time he woke up in a sweat, fingers clawing for his phone, a new search term typed lightning-quick into the browser window. Mac scanned peer-reviewed science and medical journals, blog posts, discussion forums, and sites like the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society looking for any information he could about his new-found diagnosis.

As Dr. Kang said, it was rare and tricky to treat. There were only three clinical trials in the entire world dedicated to the diagnosis, one in Rochester, Minnesota at the Mayo Clinic, one in Seattle, Washington at Fred Hutchinson and the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, the last one in India. With so few cases amongst the tens of thousands of non-Hodgkin lymphoma cases (encompassing too many subtypes to even count) around the world, research was limited. Add to the fact Mac was a young adult, the odds looked even more troubling. If you thought children received terrible treatment protocols for leukemia and lymphoma that were meant more for adults, then the treatment protocols and research into young adult cancers were even worse. Young adults were a subset of the population all on their own, and few clinical trials existed for them, let alone the diseases that impacted their lives at such crucial milestones.

While Mac was a young adult at twenty-eight years of age, he thankfully had a stable life. He’d dropped out of MIT in the late fall of 2009 to join the Army, which had led him to meet Jack Dalton, which ultimately led both into the work of covert government operations. Jack had been a part of the CIA on and off for quite a while, but they were stuck at the hip when DXS reached out to recruit both men into the world of alternative solutions to world problems. And that was where Mac had settled, living in his grandfather’s home and literally running around the world since early 2012. Good health insurance, popular retirement packages, stable pay, and Mac got to do the thing he enjoyed the most: make something out of nothing.

Wincing in pain as his left leg throbbed, Mac clicked his phone dark, breath coming in short gasps from the level of _ouch_ echoing throughout his body. The nasal cannula was tucked into his nose, necessary once again after his first fever spike. They called it a neutropenic fever. His immune system was so overrun with lymphocytes – his cancer – that he wasn’t making enough of the rest of his immune cells. One of them, neutrophils, was so low that he could not fight infection. If he caught a cold right then, he could _die_. He didn’t know what the numbers were for that early Saturday morning, but Mac was more focused on the physical complications.

He usually didn’t notice the pain. Hell, he didn’t usually have time to notice – his mind was generally swirling with mathematical equations, theories of physics, and chemical compounds. But with the prospect of over four weeks of lying in a hospital bed looming before him, he didn’t have a lot of distractions from the pain.

Every project, every mission, would have to be on hold until he got out and could get back to the Phoenix. He didn’t know when that would be – he hoped in four weeks. But stage four cancer was nothing to laugh at – especially since treatment was going to be long and somewhat experimental. And if the research from the internet proved anything, Mac was in for a world of changes.

The treatment plan suggested by Dr. Kang would be intense. Probably six to eight cycles of R-EPOCH, depending on disease response after periodic diagnostic tests. Each cycle lasted three weeks or 21 days, but anything could disrupt that timeline, from extensive side effects to lack of cell regeneration. Infection, blood clots, neurological changes, renal and liver malfunction that could lead to failure, not to mention the cardiac complications. Most people saw their blood counts drop to nothing and vomit up their guts. Add to it sores in the mouth and liquid diarrhea – Mac had stopped reading the chemocare resource online after just the first two drugs.

Bless her, Lacey had tried to get him to talk after everyone left, her gentle words attempting to ease the pain of a new cancer diagnosis. But Mac had been relatively quiet, only answering her questions as was necessary for her to do her job. Before leaving to see her other patients, Lacey had left a handful of pamphlets on his bedside table, encouraging him to call if he had any questions, or even if he just wanted to talk. The brochures weren’t precisely about his specific cancer – generalized non-Hodgkin lymphoma, new to cancer treatment, a quick rundown of the immune system, and links to internet resources, including the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, ChemoCare.com, the American Cancer Society, and the Dear Jack Foundation. Overall, he knew the nursing staff and even Dr. Kang were just trying to help ease him into the new ‘not’ normal he’d been forced into, but he didn’t want to accept it. Wasn’t the first stage of grief denial?

He couldn’t ignore the pain any longer. His phone said it was four-thirty in the morning, and Lacey was gonna come into the room soon anyway. Might as well rip the band-aid off on what was bound to be a very long day.

Mac hit the call button, waiting for someone to answer. It picked up a few seconds later.

_Hey, Mac. How can I help?_

“Can I have something for pain? And um – I’m awake if you want to take my vitals.”

_Let me see what we can get you for pain, and I’ll be in soon. Anything else I can grab before I come in?_

“No, thank you.”

He rolled to his left, wincing at the tug from the line sticking out of his neck. He hoped they could take that blasted thing out today. He sat up at the edge of the bed, eyes unfocused on the linoleum floor. He grabbed the IV pole – now his constant friend – and trudged to the bathroom.

Mac hadn’t seen his reflection in a handful of days. No point. But now, standing in front of the sink and adjacent mirror, he saw the deep purple bruising on the left side of his neck, the sleepless night under his eyes, and the tousled hair that he hadn’t touched with a comb in three days. If he stared long enough, he swore it wasn’t himself he was peering at, but someone else now living inside a body that looked like him.

_Okay, Angus. This is happening. Today you start chemotherapy. Today is the start of the rest of your life. How are you going to face it? Crying like a baby, or laughing at stupid jokes from Jack? Oh, Jack. I’m sorry. Please don’t let me drive my family away._

The knock on the bathroom door pulled Mac from his thoughts.

“Mac, are you doing okay in there?”

He shook his head, clearing his mind. He still needed to pee, and then – pain meds. Blissful relief from the aching.

“Be right out.”

A few minutes later, he was back in bed, letting Lacey fuss over him.

“I brought you tramadol for the pain. What’s hurting currently?”

Could he really say everywhere? “Uh, well, all of my bones, to be honest. They’ve been throbbing all night. Keep waking me up.”

Lacey, blond hair swept up in a bun, green eyes twinkling in the dim light, tsked, her fingers flying over the keyboard to reach the electronic medication administration record. “And you didn’t call earlier?”

Mac shrugged, tugging his blanket back over his shoulders. “My mind was – occupied.”

She gave him a puzzled look as she handed him the small round white pill. “Well, with the way your white blood cells keep skyrocketing, no wonder you’re having pain. But call earlier next time, Mac. No need to suffer in silence, okay?”

Downing the pill without a second thought, Mac just nodded, catching onto her words in a fleeting thought.

“What were my counts this morning?”

The nurse finished documenting the administration and switched to another screen in the medical record, her eyes quickly reading a long list of data – _his_ data. Blood counts and coagulation studies, viral panels, and organ function indicators. Lacey stepped back over to him, her hands gracefully wrapping the blood pressure cuff over his right arm.

“Your white blood cells went above 100,000 again. I suspect Dr. Kang will order another leukapheresis treatment. Since we are starting your treatment protocol today, he’ll want that number to be as low as we can get it. The higher the count of your white blood cells, the higher risk you are for tumor lysis syndrome. We give you chemo, and it kills off the cancer so quick, your kidneys get clogged, and your electrolytes go sky high. If your kidneys can’t filter out uric acid or potassium, your heart can stop functioning properly. We gave you a dose of rasburicase yesterday to lower your uric acid levels already because we thought you were going into spontaneous tumor lysis syndrome, but it was more related to the leukostasis. You just had too many white blood cells. It’s also why we are drawing blood work every six hours.”

_Above 100,000 again? Do I get a chance to get off this rocket ship for a second and process what is happening to me? No? Damn._

“Yeah, I read about that syndrome briefly when researching some of the chemotherapy Dr. Kang mentioned. I couldn’t really get past all the side effects.” He had looked up cyclophosphamide and vincristine, both of which were drugs that not only killed his cancer but the rest of him too. Unfortunately, an image of his mom with a colorful scarf on her head had made him stop reading any further, especially when both drugs could cause hair loss. He had a feeling there would come a time when he would have to sport the bald look – he wasn’t ready for that, not by a long shot.

Lacey finished taking his vitals, smiling sadly at him while she unhooked the blood pressure cuff. “It’s a lot to take in all at once. If you want to talk –“

Mac shook his head, inwardly cringing. He already figured he would get about five lectures from Jack and at least one lecture from every other member of his family. Kicking them all out so shortly after the crushing news was probably not his brightest idea to date.

“Good news, your platelets were at 52,000 today, so you don’t need any transfusions. Dr. Kang should be around about 8am for your lumbar puncture. He’ll go over consent and the procedure, but can I answer any questions before I leave?” She stood at the computer, her back to the now-black screen. She was desperate to get him to talk. He didn’t understand _why_.

“Not right now. But thanks.”

She almost frowned, his eyes catching her slip before she smiled again, closing the computer up into the wall. “I’ll be back at 6am for another blood draw and see how your pain is. If you need anything, you know to –“

“Call. Thanks.”

When Lacey was finally gone, Mac groaned, letting his head flop back onto the pillow. He didn’t want today to happen. He wasn’t ready for this journey. But when was anyone ever prepared? Who got time to digest the words _you have cancer_ and then magically feel prepared to tackle it head on? Mac wasn’t going to let this _beast_ kill him. But he wanted more _time_. Time to actually process the implications of this disease and what it was doing to him physically – mentally – emotionally. Everything had happened so quickly – nose bleed to hospital admission to diagnosis. _Don’t pass go, don’t collect $200. My game piece is stuck in jail, this hospital room, with no hope of an escape for at least four weeks. I’m gonna go crazy._

He glanced up at the ceiling, slowly counting the tiles as the morning sun inched itself through his sixth-floor window. Maybe the window didn’t open, perhaps he was stuck in the same room for hours and days and now _weeks_ on end to fight something that could honestly kill him, but if there was one thing cancer couldn’t do, it was break him.

* * *

The phone hit his face for the third time in fifteen minutes. His clumsy fingers, clumsier from the recent procedure, wouldn’t hold the phone and type accurately without the phone slipping and slamming into his face every few minutes. It was getting mildly annoying. Thankfully, he had hit ‘send’ on an email to various friends and colleagues just before the latest slip.

Telling what felt like the world that he had cancer was one of the hardest things Mac believed he would do that day. Especially when that email included Charlie Robinson, Frankie Mallory, and Carlos. Outside of his tight-knit family, those three were who he had kept in close contact throughout the few years he’d known them all. Frankie from MIT and Charlie and Carlos from the army. Of course, many others were included in that email, along with Matty, who was given permission to tell the Phoenix Foundation of his immediate absence.

Sending that email had been far more emotionally conflicting than the recent lumbar puncture. Dr. Kang had breezed into the room at 8am on the dot and quickly gave Mac the nitty gritty of the test and side effects that could happen. The biggest one, besides bleeding, was a headache that could occur afterward because of the shift in spinal fluid components and a small leak from the access site between the vertebrae. They were not only taking a sample, but they would also be injecting chemotherapy into the space as prevention against his cancer from invading his central nervous system.

To help mitigate that side effect, Mac was asked to lie flat on his back once the procedure was complete, for at least an hour. It had barely been twenty minutes, and already Mac wanted to get up and move. But he didn’t want the headache – no, thank you!

_They should have a tv up in the ceiling for things like this. Like the dentist office. I’d rather watch some boring game show than count the damn ceiling tiles for the sixth time today!_

Fortunately, Mac was dragged from his thoughts when someone knocked on his door – not once, not twice, but _five times_. He didn’t turn his head to look but sensed it was going to be one of his family.

"Yeah, okay, come in!”

Out of his peripheral vision, Mac saw Jack slip into the room. Even though he couldn’t see Jack’s face clearly, he could only guess that the older man was frowning.

“Did you break your back?”

Mac gave Jack a blank stare.

“What? You’re lying all wooden on that bed. I figured something bad happened.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh as Jack moved around the bed.

Jack sat in the recliner, leaning forward, hand scratching his still unshaved scruff. One night home and _still_ didn’t shave. Go figure. “You still mad?”

Mac rolled his eyes. “I’m not mad. I was – processing. I couldn’t do that with you and Matty bickering like children.”

“You kicked us _all_ out, bud.”

Biting his lip, Mac just huffed out a breath. The nasal cannula tickled, reminding him that Dr. Kang said there would be a second leukapheresis treatment once his one-hour bedrest was complete. Too many white blood cells – too much cancer to try to kill off all at once, lest they try putting Mac into the intensive care unit and on continuous renal replacement therapy. He didn’t want that – no dialysis.

“I wanted to be alone, okay? It had nothing to do with you or your outburst. I get it, Jack. You’re worried. I’m worried too. But I have to do what Dr. Kang says. It’s the only way of getting back to work.”

“A month out of work is gonna be tough. I don’t know if Matty will let you off the hook for that long.” Jack was teasing, smirking as Mac rolled his eyes once again.

“Good thing Oversight is my father.”

Jack let that comment linger, a sad smile taking over the smirk.

“Processing, huh? Is that what you’re doing now?”

Mac wanted to shrug. “More like forced bedrest. I had that lumbar puncture about half an hour ago. Have to lie still on my back for an hour.”

Jack burst out laughing, a legitimate laugh echoing throughout the room, hands coming up and covering his mouth from the outburst. “You?! STILL?! For an HOUR?!! Holy shit, do they know how _impossible_ that is for you?! You couldn’t be still for five minutes unless you were tranquilized, man!”

That did it. Mac felt himself laugh, the irony of it all hitting him. “Pretty ironic, huh? Been doing it for about thirty minutes. Already want to say fuck it and get up, risk the headache that could come with it. And the bleeding. I dropped my phone on my face three times in fifteen minutes. I will probably go insane before this hour is up.”

Jack slapped a hand on his knee, tears coming to the edges of his lashes from such hard laughter. “Ohhh, that’s cruel.”

They laughed for a few minutes more, settling down as the clock continued to tick away. Mac grew solemn, sighing.

“Yeah, well, I better get used to it. Dr. Kang says if I have the disease in my brain, they’ll be a lot more lumbar punctures. And if there isn’t any disease in my brain, he’ll still want to give me chemotherapy into my spine before each cycle of chemo to keep the cancer from spreading. Every three weeks, I get to do this.”

Jack reached out, putting a reassuring hand on Mac’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mac. And for what it’s worth, I’m not letting you go through that or any of the coming treatments alone. I promise I won’t leave you. I already told Matty to figure out how to put me on leave. I’m gonna eat, sleep, shower, and breathe the same air you do until you can get out of this place. This isn’t fair. You didn’t ask for this. You shouldn’t have to do this on your own.”

Mac felt a tear escape his left eye, tracking down the side of his face, hitting his ear. As much as cancer sucked, as much as he did not want to go through this ( _please be a dream, please be a dream_ ), Mac knew he would never be alone. He had the greatest support on the planet. Jack, Riley, Bozer, Matty, his father, Jill, Penny, Charlie, Frankie, Carlos… everyone. There would not be a moment where Mac would have to face the unknown alone. That was something he trusted with them implicitly. And it comforted him.

“Thanks, Jack,” he whispered, reaching a hand back and grasping his partner, his _brother_ , by the wrist, acknowledging that the fight was only beginning. But they would do it together – family, brother, partner, friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles innocently* Here, have another chapter. It literally just flowed from me in two hours *shrugs*
> 
> All errors, mistakes, grammar problems, and whatnot are my fault!
> 
> All comments, kudos, bookmarks, recs, and hits are never expected by truly appreciated! Love, Danielle


	7. Ready. Set. Chemo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return from the depths of unending school - it is NaNoWriMo time, AND I'm done with school in the nick of time - SO LET'S CONTINUE!
> 
> Feels coming right up...

> Brother let me be your shelter / Never leave you all alone / I can be the one you call / When you're low / Brother let me be your fortress / When the night winds are driving on / Be the one to light the way / Bring you home

_(Brother by Needtobreathe)_

* * *

 

Cycle one, day one.

Mac had swallowed down the threatening fear and despair by making Jack discuss whatever nonsense he could come up with. It had worked for a while – before the first drug, Rituxan, was causing him to shake uncontrollably. _Rigors. Not my first time._ His temperature spiked to 39 degrees Celsius, and his blood pressure dropped to 87/40. The nurse – bless her heart – tried to reassure Mac and Jack that the reaction he was experiencing was typical for patients who had never been exposed to rituximab before. However, while her reassurances were flimsy, her actions were impeccable. Two blood cultures, a fluid bolus, more intravenous Benadryl, some hydrocortisone, Tylenol, and a small dose of Demerol later – Mac was high on the good stuff. Thankfully, the shaking had passed, and his blood pressure was a healthier number.

Chemo – but really a treatment called biotherapy – had started at one in the afternoon. Without a reaction, Mac should have started his actual first chemotherapy bag at about 5pm. That hour came and went with the Rituxan still slowly dripping into him, the bag finally draining right before the evening shift change. The sedating drugs that helped curb the dreaded reaction to the Rituxan had slowly dissipated, Mac coming off his loopy high cranky and threatening damaging retribution, but thankfully no longer feeling like absolute shit.

Jack had – most _definitely_ – gotten video proof of Mac on an IV Benadryl, hydrocortisone, and Demerol high. It wasn't the same type of high that came with the good stuff that messed with Mac's head – morphine or Dilaudid, sometimes hefty doses of Phenergan and every Phoenix Medical healthcare personnel knew not to _ever_ give Mac a controlled sleeping medication. He not only hallucinated insane images but tended to sleepwalk out of his house or out of Medical. Now that there was a cancer concoction confirmed to make Mac spacey and a little unsafe outside of healthcare professional watchful eyes, there would be no winning the teasing or jabs many years into the future about this wretched time in his life.

"You were talking about some Einstein theory, then looked up at the nurse taking your vitals and asked her if she wanted to go out on a date. Nothing phased that little drugged up mind of yours, Mac. I couldn't hold in my laughter."

Cranky didn't even begin to describe Mac's facial expression as Jack discussed the past few hours. His lips were set in a firm, thin line, eyes bright but glaring daggers at his best friend and partner. He bit back, "Don't you dare show that video to _anyone, ever,_ Jack Wyatt Dalton. Or I will involve Riley in your demise."

Jack managed to hold back another giggle, his grin a mile wide, face red with pent-up glee, left-hand flush to his chest. He was about to reply when they were interrupted by a knock on the door, and Mac's day nurse and his night nurse, Lacey, came breezing into the room.

Lacey held up a substantial IV bag of unsuspecting fluid – except, it was encased in a large zip-lock with a giant sign saying, ‘chemotherapy drug – hazardous material – handle with proper PPE and dispose of in designated bins.' The fluid was also an orange-red color. The prior moment of irritation and laughter was dimmed by the sight of Mac's next infusion cocktail.

"Are we ready for some chemo?" Lacey gently set the bag on the sink counter, turning to give Mac and Jack a smile.

Mac wanted to ask why the chemo was orange-red, but Jack beat him to it.

"That's not really a normal color. Is it supposed to be red?!"

The day nurse hung a new primary line, placing it into the pump and then connecting the line to Mac's triple-lumen left PICC line. She was quick to answer. "Doxorubicin, one of your chemotherapy drugs, is naturally red. You might even have orange to red-tinged urine for a few days. Completely expected and not a harmful side effect."

Lacey's quick fingers tapped on the keyboard, logging into the electronic medical record and pulling up the medication administration record. The two nurses jointly double-checked the drug against the computer, then double-checked that the drug was for the right person: Angus MacGyver. They verified his birthday and the medical record number now associated with his current hospital stay. Finally, Lacey - in her stylish blue non-permeable chemotherapy gown - connected the secondary tubing to the priming tubing. The pump primed, bringing the drug just to the beginning of the blue lumen on Mac's PICC line.

She programmed in the appropriate settings, the day nurse double-checking the calculations. A moment later, Lacey turned towards Mac. "Are we ready?"

The IV line was that odd orange-red color. Mac gave it a good long stare, thoughts racing too fast to notice what he was actually calculating or conjuring up in that big ol' brain of his. If Rituxan could cause him to shake, spike a fever, and get super light headed from low blood pressure - then the combination of chemotherapy drugs ready to drip into him that was targeted at every rapidly dividing cell in his body was going to be ten times worse.

_Cardiac injury. Bowel obstruction. Diarrhea or constipation, or even both! Painful mouth sores. Nausea and vomiting. No ability to fight infection - ha, my cancer already has the chemo beat there! Kidney failure. Liver failure. Losing - losing my hair. Loss of appetite and loss of weight. I'm gonna be bald and definitely look sick... Loss of fertility - but males have a better chance of regenerating sperm than females do with all their eggs exposed to these toxic chemicals. But this will save my life. Even if I lose feeling in my fingers. Even if I can never - never diffuse another bomb. If I have to live with numbness and tingling and burning until I am old and gray. If I have to find another job. If I can't do the things I love and enjoy - well, it won't matter. It won't matter - because this, right here - it is going to save my life._

It wouldn't be a fast infusion. Twenty-four milliliters per hour. The constant attack on cancer circulating in his bloodstream, inhibiting his body's ability to fight infection, give his tissues oxygen, and keep him from bleeding out.

A firm but gentle hand found rest on Mac's right shoulder, a reassuring squeeze by a friend - a partner - a brother.

Swallowing hard, Mac nodded.

Lacey pushed start on the pump, and the beginning of Mac's defense against anaplastic diffuse large b-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma began - biotherapy, chemotherapy, and steroids.

The day nurse left, and Lacey was left to flit about the room during her mandatory fifteen minutes at the bedside, chatting away about her dog, bird, and two cats. Her nonstop hands took vitals, listened to Mac's heart, lungs, and bowel sounds, words penetrating an ever-rising panic of despair.

Once again, Mac masked the despair well, going along with the charade. Answering questions when prompted, bantering with Jack, and quick, frequent glances at the drugs now coursing through his veins - etoposide, doxorubicin, and vincristine.

The overwhelming emotion caught up to him as Lacey went to care for her other patients, promising to return to check up on him and see how he was feeling while teasing the blessed removal of the IJ line still glaring out of his left neck. But even with that to fill the dull ache of hospital boredom, Mac knew it was just the same shit, just a different day. More vitals, more blood work, more fluids - Mac was sure he was starting to feel somewhat over hydrated, his ankles slowly disappearing behind bulging gray socks with grips. Hospital special 101! He picked wordlessly at the fuzzy blanket Bozer had brought from home, a tight web of anxiety and sadness settling in the center of his chest.

A shift in Jack's posture. "Hey bud, what ya thinkin' 'bout?"

A beat of silence. "Pa-paperclip?"

Jack frowned, noticing the slip on the word. Most of Mac's distraction items had been moved off the bedside table, sitting on the small table in the corner, on the window ledge, or hidden in the wardrobe. The paperclips had ended up on the window sill, the box so far unopened. _Now that's not normal._ Mac was always fiddling with something, most commonly a paperclip - making it from boring ol' nothing into a ridiculous new shape.

Pulling a few clips from the box, Jack set them on the blanket, watching as Mac hesitantly took one, fingers nimbly starting to unshape and reshape.

This was not a new occurrence. Mac got lost in his own mind almost daily. But the faraway look and the absolute gut-wrenching sadness deep in those eyes told Jack it was much more than just physics, chemistry, history, or problem solving going on in that genius brain. Jack, against his better judgment, would wait for his best friend to speak first.

Companionable silence as the IV pump clicked, the telemetry monitor traced the steady beat of Mac's heart, and the quiet ministrations of fingers twisting and turning an unyielding metal.

Ten minutes passed before Mac set down the paperclip, fingers reaching for a second. The first one - an outline of a house - gave Jack pause.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Maybe not the best choice of words, Jack mused, but Mac was crawling deep inside that brain of his, and if Jack didn't do _something_ , he could ultimately lose what sanity he had left during this whole situation. Cancer diagnosis, thirty-day hospital admission, chemotherapy, kidney issues, possible heart ramifications, and sidelined from work for the insurmountable future. Jack was having a hard time keeping himself neatly tied up in a bow for Mac's sake - how the hell was his boy managing to look so small and so lost without breathing a word?

Both hands stilled on the current paperclip art, Mac not even allowing himself to look Jack in the eye.

"What - what if this doesn't work?"

Another gut-punch, another unharnessed, irrational fear. _Oh, Mac._

"We don't know if it will or won't work. We can't - we don't have the luxury to speculate. We have to be strong, be positive. Because nothing in this world, most of all fucking _cancer_ , can take you from me."

The first visible tear slipped down Mac's cheek.

Jack was there, right there at Mac's side, as he started to shake, and the panic from within could no longer be held inside.

"I - I - I - du - du - don't - don't want to die. No, please, no. Don't let me die, Jack. Don't let me die."

* * *

Mac is blissfully asleep. Jack? Not so much.

He assumes this will become the norm - minimal sleep, sleeping in this god-awful chair every night until Mac finally gets the okay to leave the room and hospital without a second thought of who, why, when, or how. But Jack, as much as he wants to be awake for every little detail of Mac's hospital stay, hovering over the nurses and every little move they make, knows that he has to sleep eventually. And soon, the reality of the diagnosis will set in, and it will become second nature to the pair - blood counts, transfusions, neutrophil count, electrolytes, dressing changes, blood draws, chemotherapy, and everything else in between.

Not long after the panic attack of the _century_ , Mac had sobered up, fiddling a little longer with the paperclips, creating a chair, and an unfortunate version of Sparky. Jack had laughed, befuddled by what Mac had conjured up. When the answer came out, Jack almost peed his pants from laughing so hard. Mac, unamused, actually got to wack Jack upside the head with a clean emesis basin.

Lacey finally returned, her promise to remove the IJ line fulfilled. Mac did well, sighing relief as the line disappeared, and all he was tethered by was his PICC line and the pesky five telemetry stickers. Hopefully, soon, he wouldn't be hooked up to much other than his pole, but tonight was not that night.

After changing into pajama bottoms and brushing his teeth, Mac managed to fall asleep, quiet breaths evening out as he lay curled in the drab hospital bed, face turned toward Jack's restless form.

The normal may change, but the objective never would. Get better, get home, get back to the Phoenix. Period.

_Mac's gonna lose his hair. Gonna lose weight - the already skinny-as-hell kid who needs about two good steaks and fifteen pounds of potatoes. The kid who loves to run and tinker with just about every object within his reach. There is gonna be so much life he won't get to experience during these few months of treatment. And I hate it, hate all of it. It isn't fair. God, why did you do this to him? Why Mac?_

But in the midst of all the weary sorrow settling into Jack's heart, he came up with a sneaky plan to make Mac's hospital stay just a little bit brighter, a little bit more like home.

He was on Amazon in seconds, a group e-mail message to friends and family in minutes. Time to make this hospital stay a hospital _party!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All errors, mistakes, grammar problems, and whatnot are my fault! Especially since it is NaNoWriMo, but I didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer. However, next chapter could be a bit. My muse changes daily on what exactly I want to write scene wise, so I'm not writing chronologically. 
> 
> All comments, kudos, bookmarks, recs, and hits are never expected by truly appreciated! Love, Danielle


	8. What Are Friends For?

> Remember me with smiles and laughter, for that is how I will remember you all. If you can only remember me with tears, then don’t remember me at all

( _Laura Ingalls Wilder_ )

* * *

The bed rustled as Mac took his time rolling over, both eyes squeezed tight against the glowing light from the computer. _Another platelet transfusion._ All he wanted was sleep. Cycle one day two, and Mac was _so_ over the vitals, the interruptions, the medications, and the constant fluids. _Drink this; well, let’s put this through your PICC line; ready for chemo?_ It never ended. 

Light snoring came from the recliner in the corner. _At least Jack can sleep_. A long, dreary day of little sleep was ahead. _One of us needs the rest, might as well be Jack_.

The blood pressure cuff inflated, and Mac felt Lacey hook the last PICC lumen up to the designated blood platelet tubing, the temporal thermometer brushing across his forehead moments later. _I wonder when I’ll lose my hair..._

With a start, Mac blinked his eyes open. _Something - woke me?_ He quickly realized that sleep had taken over before his platelets had even been hung, his eyes now adjusting to the new dawn peeking in through the window blinds. 

Glancing toward the recliner, Mac slowly sighed. Jack was gone – the blanket neatly folded over the back of the hospital chair. A quick glance at the IV pole confirmed that nothing had changed – a steady drip of sodium bicarb to help his kidneys and the red chemo ominous in the new daylight. The bag was half gone – but Mac was nowhere near halfway through his treatment, let alone this first cycle. Cancer was a bastard like that, needing multiple hits by varying drugs to hopefully disappear forever.

If only cancer were that easy to get rid of – but even if Mac’s specific subtype of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma wasn’t as quickly eradicated or didn’t have a ton of research, many cancers had drug upon drug, new treatments, and cures through revolutionary discoveries. Multiple first-line treatments involved immunotherapy and biotherapy mixed with chemo. A few were chemo free, like specific treatments for multiple myeloma. But Mac also knew myeloma had no cure – kind of like his own diagnosis.

He had spent a little too much time skimming the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society website, hunting down every last shred of information he could about anaplastic diffuse large b-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma. It was a lost cause - the diagnose hidden under multiple pages, like non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, lymphoblastic lymphoma, and anaplastic large cell lymphoma. Even more unfortunate was the lack of clinical trial information on the website - Mac was not very interested in calling them yet, especially since Dr. Kang was throwing the best treatment at him on the first try. At least, that’s what the bare basics said online.

His own mortality was a flickering flame, shimmering in the back of his ever-racing thoughts. _I could die. All of this could be for naught_. But, determined to beat the demons rampaging through his head, Mac just pushed those thoughts aside. No matter what, this beast called anaplastic diffuse large b-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma would _not_ take him down – not if he had anything to say or do about it.

After a quick trip to relieve himself, Mac settled back on the bed, legs crisscrossed, phone at the ready. He pulled up Google, typing in ‘ana,’ the rest of his diagnosis swiftly auto-populating. It was a sobering thought, Google and his phone already memorizing his specific cancer. He’d searched it so many times, he could probably spell the entire name backward – in his sleep.

A soft knock pulled his attention away from the phone. _Huh, seriously, what happened to Jack?_

The door quietly opened after he called ‘come in!’, a familiar and friendly face stepping into the room. “Hey, Mac.”

“Jill!”

They briefly hugged, Jill trying to avoid the lines and bandages that took up Mac’s small-enough stature. Mac patted the bed, giving her the universal sign for sitting at the edge.

“How are you feeling?”

Mac shrugged, frowning. “Not much has changed since you were last here. I’ve started the chemo. Dr. Kang still thinks I’ll have to stay the entire cycle because of the likelihood of complications, but he hasn’t come in yet today. Still too early for the doctors.”

“Matty sent out the memo on you. I swear all of Phoenix started stockpiling their odds and ends for you to keep your hand's busy while in the hospital. Matty mentioned she would bring over what she could, possibly this evening.”

The text messages on his phone had exploded late afternoon the day before, every Tom, Dick, and Harry at the Phoenix Foundation sending him well wishes and everything in between. Even Riley and Bozer had kept up a string of conversation as the chemo started a relentless battle in his body. Notable absences in all those texts – Matty and his father. _Director of Field Operations is always busy. Oversight, same. They can’t be with me twenty-four seven - unlike Jack._

“Tell them thank you for me.”

Jill smiled, squeezing Mac’s knee. “Of course. And I didn’t just come to make small talk.” She reached into her bag, pulling three brightly colored and carefully crafted origami cranes from the depths.

“I had originally just made origami figures for fun and stress relief. Like the one I gave you a few days ago.” She pointed at the first crane sitting with Mac’s on-display knick-knacks. “But there is a story about how if you make one thousand cranes, you can have a wish granted. I’d never ask you to make one thousand cranes – they each take quite some time to fold and master – but I decided to make you one for each day you are in treatment. No matter how long that takes. These are for diagnosis day, cycle one day one, and today, cycle one day two. I won’t bring them by every day, but I just wanted you to know that’s how I’m going to be cheering you on.”

Mac didn’t know how to respond – stunned speechlessness written all over his face. He held the three paper cranes in his cupped hands, giving them a good long look. Blue, red, green, yellow, brown – every color in the rainbow – punctuated by light and dark, shimmering, and dull areas, all colors blending into three beautiful masterpieces. Jill was an incredibly smart and talented agent – a truly wonderful friend.

When Mac eventually found his voice, he nodded, whispering, “Thank you.”

“I sorely miss you in the lab. Come back as soon as you can, okay?”

He grinned. “I’m gonna try.”

* * *

Feeling lightheaded and out of breath, Mac stopped at a bench along the wall about halfway around the unit, sitting with a heavy sigh. Who knew walking around the unit a couple of times could wind him so much?

His body was continuing to ache, even as the chemotherapy started to work its magic and kill off the fast-growing lymphocytes causing his long bones to feel like vice grips were twisting and turning and squeezing. His white blood cells had been just below twenty-five thousand that morning. It meant the chemo really was knocking down the bad cells. However, Dr. Kang was not impressed with Mac’s electrolytes or kidney labs. The sodium bicarb infusion wasn’t being as effective as possible, and Mac’s creatinine was continuing to climb, now hovering at 1.9. Along with elevated potassium, elevated phosphorus, and high uric acid, all signs screamed tumor lysis syndrome. It was a risk Dr. Kang had to expect with starting anti-cancer therapy, even if he knew it was a challenging oncological emergency to manage. The plan? Moderate diuresis with some furosemide, hoping to decrease the amount of potassium in the bloodstream. Phosphate binder pills added to Mac’s scheduled medications to be taken with meals. And finally, another dose of Rasburicase later that evening to bind with the uric acid and help eliminate it from causing injury in Mac’s body.

Dr. Kang tried to suggest possible emergent dialysis, but Mac was severely adamant about not traveling down that path. He wanted nothing to do with dialysis, not even emergently. Jack tried to mediate the brewing argument, his return from the hospital cafeteria timed perfectly with Dr. Kang’s speech about how important the kidneys and the heart were to a functioning body, but it was a lost cause. No matter the science behind the possibly necessary dialysis, Mac refused – consequences be damned. Dr. Kang eventually dropped the subject, allowing for the already discussed treatments to continue and more focused monitoring. It meant Mac wasn’t getting off the telemetry monitor any time soon.

Mac’s day nurse, Colin, came in shortly after the doctor left, his focus on completing an assessment and making sure Mac was doing okay. Colin handed out the appropriate pills, reciting off their names and reason for administration without missing a beat. Acyclovir was to prevent chickenpox and herpes virus. Fluconazole was to prevent certain fungal infections. Prednisone was a part of the chemotherapy regimen. Zofran was to help keep nausea and vomiting at bay. Add in the furosemide to bring down the potassium levels in Mac’s bloodstream and possibly help the kidneys out, Mac downed all five pills in one swallow.

Not even thirty minutes later, Mac was peeing. And peeing. And peeing. And peeing. Two hours later, the urge to urinate every five seconds finally dissipated. Colin exclaimed that Mac had peed out over three liters – all of it a brilliant red-orange tinge. It was a good sign for his kidneys – if not a good sign for Mac’s overall mood, considering it was the chemotherapy turning his urine _red_.

Mac wasn’t hungry for lunch; instead, he dragged Jack out of the room for a walk around the unit. Typically, Mac was an extremely active individual – heaving weights at least three times a week, taking runs into the foothills near his house every morning he was home (and not on a mission), and some light yoga if he had time. But between cancer, the brewing side effects, the symptomatic hyperleukocytosis, and now the probable tumor lysis syndrome – Mac was tired, achy, and cranky. Limited energy was barely letting him take a shower and dress each day – a few laps around the unit were hardly an accomplishment.

A handful of other patients were taking walks that early afternoon, two patients out with walkers, and a physical therapist. Mac wondered if he would ever need assistance with walking or going to the bathroom. The thought alone made him shiver where he sat. Thankfully, Jack didn’t notice, his head engrossed in his phone.

“The Angels lost again last night. Don’t think they’ll make the World Series. Good riddance.”

Mac just shrugged, leaning his head against the pole and resting his eyes. He wasn’t sure he could make it back to the room without assistance. _This was a mistake._  

Heeled shoes came clicking down the hall, Mac looking up just in time to be smothered by one Penny Parker.

“Oh, Mac! It has been dreadful without you! Please, get well soon, okay?”

A wrapped package – complete with a bow – and another non-descript parcel were promptly shoved into Jack’s torso, Penny giving him a look of disdain.

“Bozer wanted me to deliver these since he is caught up with work. He’ll be over later this evening or tomorrow morning with another gift.”

Jack’s eyes lit up, phone forgot as he gleefully took the two items. “Perfect!”

Releasing from Penny’s hug, Mac gave Jack a look of curiosity and concern. “Oh, what have you all planned?”

Jack just hummed, tucking his phone back into a jean pocket. “Hmm? Oh, oh nothing.” He just smiled, hugging both packages to his body. “I’m just going to take these both back to the room. Penny, make him do another couple laps. Then you can come back to the room.”

Mac started to protest, giving Jack a sideways death glare as Penny yanked Mac up from the bench, her arm looped snuggly around his right arm, her body dragging him and the associated pole down the hall. In the direction opposite Mac’s room. _Wait!_ “But –“

Jack’s form disappeared, Mac grunting as Penny chided him about not keeping up. They walked the circle twice more. Mac eventually, forcefully and a little too high-pitched to represent a mildly grateful person, told Penny he had absolutely no energy, and he didn’t want to walk anymore. She had given him a frown, asking him what had happened to him. Mac could only give her a look of exhausted disdain. She didn’t really understand what he was going through.

She dropped him off at his room, kissing both cheeks and waving good-bye, her heels clicking on down the hallway, towards – freedom. Mac stood on shaking, somewhat wobbly legs, watching her walk away. He needed to get back to bed - or he was going to fall down.

But he stood there for a moment, wistfulness filtering through his mind. He wanted to follow – but he knew better. Not only did he _not_ have the energy to get out the main door in and out of the unit (an easy wire switch and the fail-safe would break, allowing for a breezy walk into the visitor’s lounge and multitude of elevators), let alone downstairs to the main hospital lobby, but the IV pole was a glaring sidekick Mac wasn’t willing to kick. As much as chemotherapy was _not_ a walk in the park, it had the best potential to save Mac’s life. And he wanted to get out of the hospital – when Dr. Kang gave him the okay to leave – and get back to problem-solving with the Phoenix Foundation. Going now – when he had no immune system, no actual functioning white blood cells to fight infection, let alone a cold, and barely enough platelets to keep him from bleeding out all over the ground – would cost him dearly. It would probably cost him his life.

Mac had taken risks in all the years he had walked across the globe. Accidentally burning down the school football stadium. Messing with one too many explosive materials. Theoretical analysis and insane projects at MIT. Enlisting in the army before even his second year at MIT was over and picking up the one most dangerous job there could be – Explosive Ordinance Disposal. Disarming and dismantling bomb after bomb after bomb in practice and in the real world – Afghanistan and eventually around the world. Painfully watching his mentor and friend be _blown up_. Anger and revenge seething under barely-old-enough skin. Meeting Jack Dalton and facing ridiculous odds. Joining the Department of External Services and resigning with the Phoenix Foundation.

And everything else in between that sparked the fire in Mac’s whirling brain, problems aplenty in his mind, solutions literally pouring from his neurons. He had risked his life in many situations. Today, he would not risk it with a simple infection. No matter how much he was desperate to get back to work, his place was in the hospital, fighting a different type of battle. One within himself.

Running a hand through his raggedy hair, Mac stepped back into his room, body screaming for the bed. After hooking up the telemetry leads and plugging in the pole, Mac flopped onto the bed, head buried in the pillow. The usual familiar presence was absent – again.

The bathroom door creaked open, Jack’s head peeking out. He was hoping – _ah, brother_. Mac was sound asleep, breathing even and unlabored. Jack shook his head, sighing. His surprise would just have to wait. Another quick second in the bathroom and Jack was dressed in his usual tee and jeans. The small parcel was notably missing from Jack’s arms, the bigger package carefully set on the table, a clear message on the wrapping: _For Mac;_ _open cycle one day three_.

The recliner was becoming slightly uncomfortable. Eventually, Jack was going to need better accommodations – however, he was _not_ leaving Mac’s side. _Someone mentioned a cot… I’m gonna go hunt down a nurse_.

* * *

One hand gently carded through Mac’s sweat-soaked hair, another hand massaging a brewing headache. No one said chemotherapy, let alone cancer, would be easy. The challenges looming before Team Improvise were vast and almost incomprehensible. It was Mac who had to suffer the treatments, the side effects, and everything in between – but it was the entire group that would be by his side through every IV, every episode of pain, every little detail. They would have a shared experience because that was what found families did.

Sure, the nurses could hand out an entire binder filled with names and dates and side effects, along with associated medications and tips with tricks to stem said side effects, but it didn’t really focus on the psychological or social dynamics associated with chemo and cancer. Jack was the conduit between Mac and the rest of the team, especially when the Phoenix Foundation had to continue day-to-day tasks. Every mission that needed Mac would have to find someone else – even if there was really no one who could do the same things Mac spontaneously conjured up.

It was only cycle one day two, but between the initial diagnosis, the brewing tumor lysis syndrome, and some heavy-duty chemotherapy – the side effects were already hitting Mac pretty hard.

With the increase in electrolyte levels, continuous chemotherapy, and cancer slogging through Mac’s veins, it was only a matter of time before the side effects took a toll. Mac woke up from his nap, vomiting up whatever breakfast had still been in his stomach, dry heaves continuing even after all the bile seemed fully expelled. IV nausea medications and a cold cloth later, Mac was fighting back persistent nausea, eyes closed in morbid defeat. Eventually worn out, Mac had curled into a ball, his head resting on the bunched up blankets at the foot of the bed. Jack, concerned and wishing to take away all the pain and discomfort Mac was experiencing, dragged one of the table chairs over to the bed, talking nonsense and running fingers through blond strands.

Colin stepped back into the room, a handful of washcloths, two emesis bags, and another medication in his arms.

“How’s the nausea?”

Mac mumbled something, and Colin took that as a sign of _not so great_.

“I’m gonna put on something called a scopolamine patch, behind your ear, which is another type of nausea medication we can use that lasts about seventy-two hours before we have to switch the patch. Side effects can include dry mouth, dizziness, and blurred vision.”

_Mac mentioned that drug once… oh_. “Is that safe to give?”

Colin gave Jack a perplexed look as he signed into the medical record. “Give it all the time, especially to people experiencing persistent nausea. It’s safe.”

“Mac –“

“I’ll be fine, Jack.” Before he could explain more, Mac was sitting up and dry heaving over the edge of the bed, a green emesis bag held tightly in a shaky grip.

Jack felt helpless, slowly rubbing circles into Mac’s back as Colin took control. It felt like hours before the heaving stopped, the scopolamine patch in place behind Mac’s left ear, his body sagging against the mattress once more. Fingers gradually resumed their tender methodical cares, Jack’s strong but low voice starting to sing.

_Well, I started out down a dirty road; started out all alone… And the sun – oh, it went down as I crossed the hill…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -(Learning to Fly by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I don’t know, seemed like something Jack would sing?) 
> 
> NaNoWriMo is going a lot slower than I had hoped, however, I'm working in chronological order for the moment, so I should have the next chapter out before the end of November. Just trying to keep details consistent after not touching this story for a while, and keeping the flow. The next few chapters are going to be one chapter = one day. It'll be obvious when I speed up the story telling.
> 
> All comments, kudos, bookmarks, hits, recs, etc etc, are huge honor, truly appreciated, but never expected. You guys are amazing!!!


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